Shard of Glass
by Aratea
Summary: This was a sweet, excruciating torment he deserved—he would endure the blaze she kindled in his mind and body, and the more intense it was, the more his conscience was soothed. 'Yes,' it told him, 'feel this tortuous want, and know that it will burn you forever, and you will never act to sooth it. She is your wife in name only—she will never be yours.' E/C, of course.
1. Chapter 1: Living Bride

Hi all. This is my first try at this, so I'd love some creative feedback. These characters, of course, don't belong to me.

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><p>His living bride.<p>

He still couldn't believe she had said it, rejecting his offer, in the end, to let her go.

"_I will marry you, Erik," she had said, even after he had kissed her and set her free._

_He sighed at her stubbornness. "You love him," he said. "Go be with him. You owe me nothing."_

"_No, I want to stay with you. I see now how much my love is worth to you, and I would never mean that much to him, though he loves me."_

"_Christine, don't throw your life away. With me, your days will be lived out in darkness," he said, his conscience straining against everything else in him that wanted her._

"_Light them up for me," she had invited, smiling gently and taking his cold hand._

The carriage stopped in front of Saint-Sulpice. This was the church of the poor, the anonymous. Its ugly, mismatched towers and seedy surroundings driving away anyone interested in appearances. Erik felt confident in his choice as they left the dark carriage—the few people walking the nearby streets were as eager to be unnoticed as he was.

Climbing the church steps they past a cluster of gypsies gathering on the massive church's portico against the chill of the night. A young woman with a whimpering bundle cradled in one arm stepped in front of Christine with an eager outstretched palm.

Erik stepped in front of her protectively, but she gently pulled him back. Searching in vain through her purse for a coin, she finally closed the little bag and pulled off her gloves, handing them to the girl, who took them without a word, pulling the warm gloves onto her chapped hands.

_Kind_, he thought, wordlessly guiding her up the rest of the steps. She was always kind. But he drove away the thought as it convicted his conscience even more. It didn't even bear mentioning that he didn't deserve her, but she chose this. She chose him.

"_You swear to me that this is what you want—" he had asked her anxiously, "you want to marry me, and stay with me, even though I told you you were free to leave and marry the boy? I swear I won't hurt either of you, or anyone else, no matter what you choose. I want to know what you truly want."_

"_I truly want to marry you," she said, raising her fingers to his naked face, "Raoul doesn't need me—he could find happiness with nearly anyone else. You, however, have no one else."_

"_And so you simply pity me," he added grimly, pulling away from her touch, "and you stay with me out of some sense of Christian charity, or some other ridiculous compunction."_

"_No! You know that's not true, and you mock me by saying it. I care deeply for you, as I've told you—_shown _you—before. Why are you trying to push me away?"_

_Why was he trying to convince her to leave him? She had just granted his wildest wish, and yet he had resisted her._

"_Because I love you too well," he decided finally, "to keep you trapped in darkness with me…"_

"May I have a moment, Erik?" she asked quietly, interrupting his thoughts. He hesitantly released her, regarding her watchfully as she dipped her fingers into one of the huge bivalve shells that served Saint-Sulpice as holy water fonts, the gift of some king long ago. She crossed herself, and moved quietly into one of the darkened side chapels and knelt, her face illuminated by the flickering light a few smoky candles left at the shrine.

He stood uncomfortably, waiting in the shadow of one of the massive columns that supported the hulking vaulted ceiling. He always felt awkward in churches—they were for the living, the penitent, and he was already dead and already damned.

Or at least he would be damned in a moment, he thought, as he watched Christine pray. His joy at the prospect of marrying her momentarily was only rivaled by his guilt—could a demon ever make this reverent angel happy?

_She chose me_, he reminded himself again, pushing those thoughts away. She lingered still, so he chose a chapel of his own. This one held a small statue of an older man with a bunch of lilies cradled in one arm, and a child in the other, standing on a plinth over an altar. St. Joseph—guardian of virgins.

The coincidence prickled his conscience yet again.

_I'll take care of her_, he insisted in his mind, to no one in particular. _She will never want for anything, as long as I live._ The saint continued his benign gaze down at him.

"I'm ready, Erik," came a soft voice behind him. He turned, struck for the thousandth time by her beauty. Dark curls, a small form, and a soft, graceful way about her left him drunk if he admired her too long. He shouldn't be doing this...

"You're sure?" he asked again, softly, sadly.

"Of course," she said, taking his hand gently, leading him toward the transept. "Don't be afraid, Erik."

A few moments later a young gypsy woman watched as the strange couple left the church, hand in hand. She didn't usually pay the gorgios any mind—they sometimes threw coins, sometimes stones, and she often couldn't tell the difference. But this lady was different. The girl had never own anything as fine as this lady's soft embroidered kid gloves, and she had never been shown such artless regard in her young life.

As the kind lady and the dark gentlemen returned to their carriage in front of the church and left, the simple girl hoped that they had good food and somewhere warm to stay that night—the grandest wish she knew to make for their happiness.


	2. Chapter 2: Shattered

The carriage stopped at the front of a run-down, non-descript house in an ancient neighborhood on the far bank of the river from the opera house.

"Welcome home, madam," Erik said quietly as he helped her down from the carriage in front of the door.

"This is home now?" she wondered, taking in the row of shabby old houses.

"Yes," he said slowly, "but perhaps you'll want to reserve judgment until I show you the inside."

Inside was no better, Christine decided, as they passed through the interior of the house. Its age showed spectacularly in its peeling plaster and dark appointments. There was so little furniture and so many dusty cobwebs that it looked abandoned, and certainly uninhabitable. But her confusion seemed to amuse Erik.

"Wait a moment yet, my dear," he instructed, a half smile lurking at the edge of his mask. He moved to a particularly crumbled patch of wall in the innermost room. The plaster here appeared to have eroded in chunks, leaving several deep cavities in the wall the size of a fisted hand.

"I bought this house years ago before the opera had been built from a man who was too old to continue to care for it," he said, running his hands over the pitted plaster as if looking for something. "He didn't know what lay just beneath it," he said, finding a handhold in the crumbling plaster and pulling. At his touch a whole section of the wall slid forward and to the side, revealing a small, low-ceilinged spiral of steps leading downward. _Master of trap doors indeed_, she thought.

As they descended, led by the light of a small lamp, the cramped, curving staircase gave way to a huge gallery, with vaulted ceilings descending periodically to meet with six rows of columns, spaced every three meters or so.

He lit two small basins of oil ensconced in the walls, flooding the room with a dancing light.

"Erik," she breathed in wonder. "How did you know this was down here?"

"I wasn't sure it was, at first," he replied, pleased at her astonishment. "This is an old neighborhood, and I had explored adjacent tunnels before. Paris, as you know, has labyrinths of sewers and catacombs underground. Most of them connect to each other, but this room had been sealed off for centuries before I found it."

"How old do you think it is?" she asked, running her fingers over the worn surface of a nearby column.

"This room is medieval—perhaps built as a storeroom as much as four hundred years ago. The rest of this place is more or less the same age, though the foundations and a few of the walls are probably Roman."

"There's more, you mean?"

"Of course, my dear. I won't have you sleeping in this drafty gallery."

As he said it, she felt the air move around her with some surprise. She had expected it to be as still as a tomb down here.

"We aren't far from an underground tributary of the Seine," he spoke, answering her unspoken question. "The moving water keeps the air circulated and fresh. That, and when I discovered this place I opened a passage to a nearby tunnel that connects to passages all over the city, some of them leading to the surface. I find the result to be a fairly pleasant atmosphere—not quite the dank crypt you may have expected."

He spoke with obvious pride that made her smile. "You are quite a man, Erik."

Silently, he gazed back at her with a sudden tenderness that made her heart ache. "You're the only one that's ever seen me as a man, Christine," he said slowly, almost timidly reaching for her hand.

She gave it to him, allowing herself to be drawn toward him in a gentle embrace. "You won't be alone anymore, Erik," she said firmly. "I'll stay with you, and we'll make lovely music and be happy together. Don't be melancholy."

"How can I be, when you're here?" he asked softly, his face half buried in her dark curls. His fingers passed hesitantly through their silky strands, barely daring such an intimate touch. "I only wish I deserved you…"

Shy in his attentions and seeking to arrest his dark vein of thought, she suddenly bounded from his arms, playfully glancing back at him as she grasped a nearby column and turned in a graceful arc around it.

"Little sprite," he smiled softly at her, enjoying the beautiful shadows her lithe form created in the firelight.

"Show me the rest of it, please," she commanded playfully, her voice reverberating happily off the ancient vaults.

"This way, my darling," he bowed, offering her his arm.

They entered a narrow passage that led to another huge gallery, though this one had been sectioned off into several large rooms. Erik lit several more oil lamps, and she could see that this part of the house had been furnished very comfortably, with carpets and bright sconces leading them welcomingly down the center hall of the gallery, at the end of which a large hanging candelabra gleamed magnificently.

"It's beautiful, Erik," she breathed wonderingly.

"I'm glad you are pleased," he replied, smiling softly. "It belongs to you now."

"To us," she corrected after a moment, taking his hand. His eyes turned suddenly sad as he bent to kiss her small fingers.

"What's wrong?" she asked, concerned. The sad look was immediately concealed beneath the opaque veil of control she had seen so often. When he spoke, she wasn't sure he was answering truthfully.

"I was just thinking how hungry and tired you must be, my love. What a thoughtless husband I am to be giving you a tour while you haven't had a proper meal in ages! I'll show you one last room, and then I'll leave you to rest a moment while I find you some supper."

He led her hesitantly down the hall and into a room whose walls were nearly covered with rich Persian brocades, whose sumptuous patterns contrasted strikingly with the stark curves of the Gothic vaults above. On top of these, several mirrors were skillfully hung around the room, reflecting the lamplight and casting glimmers all along the walls. A large armoire seemed near full to bursting with more rich fabrics—new dresses for her, she guessed. A small charcoal brazier in one corner wafted a thin column of sweet-smelling smoke upward and into the center of the room, a low, plush bed stood invitingly.

Christine blushed violently. The bed was seductively dressed with even more brocades, supplemented with gleaming silks, and the softest furs, and the whole thing was studded with a dozen huge down pillows artfully arranged.

"This is beautiful," she gasped again, reaching down to stroke a particularly velvety-looking expanse of fur.

"I'm pleased you find it so," he said quietly. He opened a thick curtain at the back of the room to reveal another narrow, rough-hewn passage lit by a dim, shimmering reflected light. "Come and see," he invited.

At the end of the passage, around a corner, a small, warm room opened. The stone walls had once been decorated by ornately carved masonry that was barely visible now. Towards the back of the room, the floor sloped downward, forming a small, shallow pool.

A stream of water flowed into it from a crumbling stone lion's head about a meter above the surface of the pool, which was another meter deep. Hot coals glowed cheerfully behind a modern grate just below the lion's head, heating the water as it poured out. Beside the pool another armoire was just opened to reveal towels and plush Turkish robes.

Another, smaller carving of a dolphin poured water into a stone basin nearby at just the right height to wash one's face and hands. Lamps hung all around the room, reflecting beautifully off of the surface of the water.

"Did you make all of this?" she asked wonderingly.

"Much of this was here when I opened the passage," he replied. "My guess is that this used to be part of a thermal bath, probably first used by the Romans. The water that comes out is warm naturally, but I added the furnace to warm it further as it flows out.

"I imagine," he continued, "that you'd like to wash, or perhaps take a bath before dinner. Everything here belongs to you—towels and a clean robe are there," he motioned toward the armoire, "and you'll find clean clothes in the wardrobe in the bedroom. Is an hour sufficient time?"

"Yes, of course," she said, still awed by the beautiful baths.

"Then I'll leave you for now," he said softly, excusing himself.

She bashfully waited several moments after he had left before disrobing and slipping into the pool. It was warm and incredibly soothing, with a faint mineral smell and feel to the water.

Lifting her feet from the smooth stone floor, she floated easily onto her back, luxuriating in the feeling of weightlessness. Nearby, she noticed a latched wooden box, just within reach of the pool. When she opened the box, a dozen alluring scents rose from its contents—rose, orange, clove, mint, and myrrh.

She hesitated for a moment before the gleaming vials of oils and rich soaps, staring at the beautiful glass bottles, her good breeding restraining her from immediately diving into the delicious-smelling contents.

_Well, who else is here to use all of this_? she finally thought, laughing at herself. Immediately her conclusion was confirmed by the discovery of an old friend—a mint-infused oil popular among the dancers and performers of the opera. It was best for soothing legs and feet made sore by dancing and hours-long rehearsals in heavy costumes and unforgiving shoes.

When Erik had first "invited" her to his home by the underground lake, she had asked him for some, and he had brought it to her in this very bottle, though now it was filled with fresh oil, the crushed mint leaves swirling within it still bright green and pungent.

She smiled at his consideration. _He can't be such an inhuman monster, while also being so kind to me_, she thought. As if to argue with her, her mind brought back memories of the terrors she had seen or experienced at his hands—blackmail, kidnapping, extortion, and possibly, though no firm proof was to hand, murder.

_I made this choice to protect others as well as for the sake of my own regard for him_, she thought grimly, pushing away the unpleasant recollections. She had seen how her influence seemed calming and civilizing to him; he always acted rationally around her, and with the glaring exception of kidnapping her, treating her in a gentlemanly way. _Perhaps my love can convince him that he truly _is _a member of the human race._

Several minutes later she emerged, the white planes and curves of her skin gleaming from the water and oil. On the far wall, another large mirror hung, reflecting the sight of her bare skin back to her, and she turned, examining herself critically.

She sighed at the dark circles under her eyes, and the pale, bloodless cast her complexion had taken over the past few weeks, though she found some cause for optimism in the suppleness of her skin and the evenness of her proportions.

She tried not to wonder what Erik would think of the sight of her, the thought making her want to sink back into the pool, covering herself completely in the dark water and never coming out again. _Every woman has done this from the beginning of time,_ her practical side chided her. _You yourself are the product of a thousand women baring themselves thus to their husbands, some of them surely much plainer than you_; _you needn't put up a fuss over the way of all the earth_.

The butterflies she felt in her stomach proved immune to reason, however, and persisted as she wrapped herself up, dressed her hair simply, left the now-fragrant bathroom, and emerged into the bedroom. She tried to avoid looking at the large, luxuriant bed beside her as she distractedly sifted through the contents of the armoire.

As many of the accoutrements were still in boxes, she had guessed he had sent a dressmaker her measurements, and had simply accepted the delivery of whatever had been produced. However, many of the pieces seemed selected with her in mind—dramatic blue and green silk evening dresses that would set off her striking eyes and dark hair beside day dresses of the palest pink and porcelain that would match her fair, translucent skin.

She sighed. At least the underthings had clearly been chosen by a woman. The bravest warrior would have paled at the sight of as many yards of lace and ribbon as Christine found crammed in a small trunk at the bottom of the wardrobe.

Upon perusing her options, she was content with what she saw—nothing so demure as to seem girlish or maidenly, but nothing too daring to consider wearing. She finally settled on a matching chemise and pantalettes trimmed in blue ribbon that she hoped didn't seem too bold, or perhaps worse—too virginal.

She also chose a burgundy damask dress that, though not as striking as some of the other dresses in the wardrobe, appealingly displayed her smooth white neck and collarbones. To this she attempted to add modest necklace of what appeared to be garnets that she had found in a small chest of similar articles, but the clasp mechanism fought her.

"Allow me," came a voice behind her, close enough that she could feel a warm puff of breath diffuse stirringly on her bare shoulder.

As he worked out the clasp, his fingers barely brushed the soft skin of her neck. He didn't fail to notice her soft shiver at his touch.

He couldn't prevent his body from responding to her movement, but he violently dashed the immediate craving he had to touch her again, just to see what she would do.

"How long have you been there?" she asked nervously.

"Only a moment," he said quickly. He allowed his eyes to wander over her form.

"You look so beautiful, Christine," he breathed honestly.

She blushed, her porcelain skin matching the garnet of her necklace and dress for a brief instant.

The effect was ravishing. Erik crushed yet another desire to…

_No_.

He didn't even allow himself enough time to decide what it was he wanted to do. He rather quickly led her from the rich enticements of the bedroom back to the open gallery, where he had spread a simple supper of bread, cheese, and fruit. He had also procured a fair supply of a dark, lush wine that he knew to be strong and good—he thought its effects might be welcome to them both in the hours to come.

Dinner passed quietly, both of them suffering from nerves. They ate slowly, the expectations of their wedding night hanging almost palpably in the air, and neither of them very bold in the face of _that_ new frontier.

Finally, long after they had both finished, Erik was the first to broach the subject of how they would spend the rest of their evening.

"Are you very tired, Christine?" he asked, but he nervously rushed on. "I'm sure you must be. I'm sure you're dead on your feet."

"Just a little tired, actually," she returned shyly, toying with a fold of her dress.

"Well, allow me to show you back to the bedroom, in any case."

She rose, grasping his proffered arm. He led her slowly back to the rich chamber, with its dancing oil lights, which seemed now to cast an intimidatingly sensuous light.

"Erik," she began shyly, moving toward the stuffed armoire.

"Yes, my darling?"

"Could you turn your back to me for a moment, please?"

"Oh, you needn't…" he began, but the words caught in his throat. "No, I'll step out for a moment. Call for me whenever you want me to return."

"Erik," she said again softly. As if her gentle voice hadn't already arrested him mid-step, she caught his sleeve with her hand as he turned. "You don't need to leave. I'm your wife now. I'm only a little nervous, that's all. Please stay."

He reluctantly remained, obediently turning his back to her. Her beautiful smile had struck him as all the more lovely for its shyness. The sounds of fabric brushing bare skin behind filled him with an ache down to the marrow of his bones. Oh, that it were _his fingers_ brushing her naked skin!

After what felt like an eternity, he felt her little fingers grasp his hand, and he couldn't help but turn and look at her.

He gasped involuntarily at the sight of her—a vision of white silk and lace in her alarmingly sheer peignoir. As he watched, she pulled first the ribbon, and then the pins out of her hair, letting it fall over her shoulder in a silky, fragrant cascade. His breath quickened.

He couldn't stop his hand as it rose, touching her blooming cheek with the backs of his fingers, then running them softly down her neck, brushing her bare collarbone as she held perfectly still. The only sound was her long, whispered exhale as he touched her.

His hand dropped, catching hold of her hand again as he led her to the bed. She lay down as he knelt beside her, slowly kissing first her palm, then her wrist, his attentions rewarded with a shivering sigh from her rosy lips.

"I can't imagine anything more lovely than you lying here, my love," he breathed softly, raining more kisses along the tender translucence of the inside of her arm. His eyes didn't meet hers, but she thought she saw a strange glimmer in them, like a tear about to fall.

But he gently stood, and snuffed out all of the lamps hung around the room, leaving it in a warm darkness disturbed only by the glow of the last dying ember in the fragrant brazier. She felt him settle onto the bed beside her, and take her hand once more.

"I love you so," she thought she may have heard him whisper, but the sound seemed incongruously sad, and she dismissed it as a figment of her now-fevered imagination. In the darkness, she heard his angelic voice sigh the softest, sweetest melody as he kissed her arm again, and she couldn't imagine heaven being any sweeter than this…

He continued his lullaby until he heard his beloved's breath grow slow and deep, and once he made sure she was warmly tucked into the soft furs and silks, he very carefully arose from the bed.

But she stirred at his movement, and he heard a groggy sound of disapproval as he released her hand.

"You aren't staying?" came her confused, drowsy protest. He sighed softly.

"No, my sweet love. You're so sleepy, and we've both had too much wine. I couldn't…" His beautiful voice drifted off for a moment into anguished silence, but he soon plied it again in the same achingly gentle lullaby. She muttered a few, sleepy objections, but quickly succumbed to the sweet, sad darkness of his song.

He left as soon as he was sure she was truly, deeply asleep.

Tears streamed down his face before he had even left sight of that dark, delicious room with all of its sweet promise of heaven. He fled across the ancient flagstones to a room far from the one in which Christine lay, now shielded from his brutally aching want.

He had created this room long ago for a very special purpose—to serve as his own personal torture chamber, a place of penance for everything he was. From the floor to the ceiling hung scores of mirrors at every height and angle, and the floor was covered in razor shards of even more mirrors that he had smashed years ago. He had replaced each mirror he had ever destroyed in his mad raging, not letting even a single one of his horrible reflections die in slivers on the ground.

No mercy for a monster.

Now, he lit the single lamp by the door, putting off his shoes in this holy place of atonement, choking back his sobs as he savagely forced himself to tread the razor-strewn ground into the middle of the ruthless room.

"Wretch!" he hissed aloud, rounding on his own masked reflections, his voice quivering with anguished rage. "You thought you could ever be her husband—her _lover_? Never forget that it is with _these cold, dead hands_ you wish to caress her!"

With his clawed fingers and a strangled cry, he tore off the mask, viciously raking both the leather and tender skin underneath, and throwing it to the ground. Dark blood welled up in gruesome stripes on his already monstrous naked face, oozing as thick and dark as if it had come from a fresh cadaver, blood already congealing in its still veins.

In the mirrors, he watched it silently, mercilessly seep down his mangled skin, confirming all he had ever understood about his own hideousness.

"It is with this _corpse_," he cried, sinking to his knees onto the sharp shards, sobbing brutally in his grief, "you would make love to her…"

He collapsed to the floor, his growing pain strangely granting him control and soothing his sobs.

"_Monster_," he breathed at length, his shaking finally stilled. His blood dripped onto the shards twinkling evilly beneath him.

With a deep sigh of ancient pain, he stood, his resolution cemented by the legions of horrors created by the mirrors surrounding him. They were the only trustworthy counsellors he had ever known, lifeless and cold as they were—they always, faithfully, unflinchingly reminded him of exactly what he was.

"I will never touch her," came his whispered promise, and he turned, leaving his blood and tears on the glittering floor.


	3. Chapter 3: Monster

A/N:Thanks for the great feedback, guys! It's really been encouraging to me. I hope you like this chapter (and sorry it's so short. Erik does NOT want to prolong this conversation) and don't worry-they'll get their act together eventually. ;) 

Ch 3: Monster 

She awoke alone, for a moment forgetting where she was.

Her eyes finally focusing in the quiet lamplight, all of last night flooded back into her mind. She wasn't sure whether to brush off the sting of rejection pushing up against her thoughts. _Maybe he was just being chivalrous_, she thought, unsure if optimism was warranted.

She noticed a tray with cream and strawberries resting on the washstand, and some toasted bread warming on the brazier. She smiled, remembering how she had once told him she was fond of strawberries on toast with cream. She prepared a piece, mulling over the night's events as she ate. She wanted to talk to Erik.

Dressing quickly, she left the room and began wandering cautiously through the twilit galleries of the strange, underground house. A far-off sound of music echoed eerily off the stone walls, impelling her forward to find the source of the melody—undoubtedly her brilliant husband.

As she wended through unfamiliar stone passages, following the music, she passed several darkened rooms—a parlor of some kind, a library, a workshop or laboratory, and a very dark room into which she could see nothing but a few sharp-looking glints as if from broken glass.

She shivered, remembering.

_"Careful where you wander, Christine," he once told her, when he had first brought her down to the house by the lake. "While my home is yours now too, it does not yet recognize you as its mistress. I couldn't bear to see you maimed—or worse—in an accident…"_

She had seen first-hand the cunning, violent traps he had laid for trespassing enemies, and the knowledge reminded her of the dangerous risk she took in wandering alone through another house of Erik's design. The dark, evil-looking room winked at her as she walked past it quickly.

The room the music was coming from was almost as dark as the last one. She entered it silently, and as her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she saw him—he was hunched over an organ console with four manuals, his fingers and feet churning out the expansive, but sweet sound that now surrounded her. Ranks of lead and wooden pipes arranged in graceful scales lined the dim walls, casting barred shadows along the ceiling.

The music he played was sadly sweet and mellow, relatively soft for the capable pipes that surrounded her, but not so soft as to betray the sound of her light steps as she approached the raised stand of the organ console.

She reached out, brushing his neck with her warm fingers. His shoulders immediately tensed in surprise, his fingers freezing on a dissonant chord for just a moment too long before easing back into resolution. The pipes then stilled.

"Good morning, my love," he said quietly, resetting all the stops on the console. "How did you sleep?"

"I slept well, Erik," she returned, "And you?"

He smiled joylessly. "I slept as well as I usually do."

"Alone," she prodded.

He said nothing, quickly pulling several stops, and beginning a much more ardent fugue.

Undismayed, she reached up once again, slowly, lightly brushing his neck from the tender, pulsing skin behind his ears, down to his protruding collarbones.

She could see him fiercely trying to ignore her, to retreat back into his music, but she could also feel his pulse quickening under her fingers, and his skin, which was usually like ice, was now feverish and flushed. His music, which had started as a vehemently complex piece, had devolved into two simple melodies warring with each other, which he desperately clung to with all the focus he could muster.

She bent her head beside his ear, letting her breath flow down his neck. "Why did you sleep alone?" she whispered softly into his ear. "Do I not please you?"

His focus broke with a great, shuddering sigh.

"Not please me?" he repeated in an anguished tone. "Silly girl, can't you see what you _do_ to me when you touch me? You have me completely at your mercy and you wonder if you please me? That's exactly the problem—you, in all your sweet innocence, drive me wild with want for you!"

"Then why is it a problem?" she asked, her voice rising petulantly to match his, "Why do you spurn me? I'm not the most beautiful woman in the world, but if you'd give me a chance I think I could learn to make you happy!"

He stopped, suddenly aware that he had hurt her feelings. He gathered her to him, stroking her hair and making soft, soothing sounds, and she alarmingly burst into tears against his shoulder.

"Dear, sweet love," he cooed gently, "you don't understand what I'm saying. You please me far, far _too_ much. You _are_ the most beautiful woman in the world to me—you're an _angel_. And that's a problem because…" he hesitated, knowing that his next words could close his only door to heaven forever.

"Because I'm a monster…" he decided finally, allowing his conscience to protect her from his scorching want.

Neither spoke for several moments. He felt her eyes searching his masked face, but he couldn't raise his own off the floor to meet them.

"I know who you are," she said softly, at length, "and I don't care."

He felt her words ring within him—he was expecting her to contradict him, to ignore his hideous face and his analogously hideous crimes. He had kidnapped her, threatened her and the man she had loved. And there were many things he had done long ago that she didn't even know about. He _was_ a monster. No one who knew him could truthfully deny it. But he was surprised when she hadn't even tried.

"You don't care that I'm a monster," he repeated sardonically, separating each word as if to show her how ridiculous they were.

"No," she said boldly, straightening unapologetically. "I think you act that way sometimes because that's how people have always treated you, but I will treat you like a human being and a gentleman, and I expect you to act accordingly."

He smiled internally. Her plucky courage reminded him of a fluffed-up kitten standing up to an intimidating dog. But he would prove that courage before he could ever think of what she offered.

"And you want me to be a true husband to you, then," he said, toying with her.

"Yes," she said confidently.

"And a gentlemanly lover as well," he continued, pretending to scratch one of his ears.

"Well, yes," she said, slightly less confident this time, her face blushing.

"You want me to make love to you!" he sneered grimly, his tone suddenly fierce. With one smooth motion, he tore off his mask, exposing all of his raw, contorted face, still red and bleeding from his rage the night before.

Unprepared for his sudden brutality, she couldn't help but gasp and draw away. His angry eyes missed none of this.

"Yes," he said, his voice still harsh and he reapplied his mask smoothly. "You are afraid of me, and so an innocent angel _should_ be frightened by a monster from Hell."

She started to protest, but he didn't allow her to speak.

"If I ever managed to seduce you, Christine," he continued relentlessly, "you would hate me in the morning, and hate yourself for the rest of your life for enduring me willingly. I am an abomination, and I taint anything I associate with! I have already married you—a sin worthy of death, if I speak truthfully—but my love, if I expressed it, would only destroy you."

"You overestimate yourself," she choked out bravely, frightened by his sudden descent into this frenzy of anger.

"Do I?" he returned derisively. "You can't even look at my bare face without flinching away from me in fear. How on earth do you think you could endure me touching you that way?"

"You don't always have to be so frightening," she accused, angry that he had tried to scare her off.

"No, Christine," he said, his voice softening, "I am a monster, and none of my gentle masks can change what's underneath. I will never make love to you, as much as I want to, as much as I crave you. It would be easiest if you accepted that now."

She watched unhappily as he stood, left the organ, and walked out the door.


	4. Chapter 4: Nightmare

Hi guys, thanks for the continued support, follows, favorites, and reviews. This chapter includes my own interpretation of a modern reception of medieval Sufi love poetry by C. Dean. Sufi poetry is gorgeous. Go find and read more if you like it!

Chapter 4: Nightmare

She couldn't sleep that night. The rest of that day had passed in a troubled silence that pervaded even her fitful dozing dreams.

She finally rose in frustration, and lit one of the lamps in her room, carrying it out into the shadowy main corridor along with a large fluffy fur from the bed. She counted the doors on her left until she found the one she sought—the small chamber Erik had shown her earlier that was covered from floor to ceiling with books of every description.

She didn't feel like reading, but she found the prospect of trying to go back to sleep even less appealing. She pulled a leather-bound book off a shelf carelessly, not even looking at the title, and curled up with the soft pelt in the dark wing-backed chair next to the lamp.

Opening the book, she had to hold it inches away from the lamp in order to realize that her eyes weren't failing her in the dim, wavering light. The book was printed neatly, but not in any script she had ever seen. Instead of tall, blocky Roman letters, the text was comprised of graceful lines and curves as if written by a swirling desert wind. She squinted at the shapes curiously in the darkness, futilely trying to force meaning from them.

She finally closed the book resignedly. Little, it seemed, would be easily readable for her in this strange house underground—its books, its passages, its darkness, and least of all its master. A small, frustrated sigh escaped her lips.

In the darkness, her sigh was echoed by the softest cry.

She sat for a moment in the dark, not sure if she she had really heard anything at all. Finally, as she had almost risen to try her luck with a different book, she heard the sound again. She picked up the lamp and stepped into the hall. The sound came again from even further down the still, dark corridor.

She quietly followed the noise, suddenly very aware of the bareness of her feet on the frigid flagstones—the cold made her walk even faster.

As her pace quickened, so did the soft whimpers she followed, until she found their source— a bare, dark cell completely devoid of light or furniture. On a broad, rocky ledge in one corner of the room, she saw Erik curled up like a child against the wall, his back to the room.

There were no blankets or pillows around him, and his clothes hadn't changed since she had seen him earlier in the day— he had only removed his coat, vest, and shoes, which now lay on the floor at his feet, crowned with his sepulchral mask.

His shoulders shook as he gasped and whimpered, and his bare feet seemed curled in on themselves against the chilling stone. She felt instantly ill-at-ease, as if she had stumbled upon something private and shameful, but she couldn't leave him in that state.

She raised the lamp a little, casting its wavering light slightly deeper into the shadows of the room. She called his name softly, but he didn't seem to hear her.

Finally, she approached his shuddering form, knelt on the ledge beside him and touched his shoulders softly. He immediately stilled, and his tormented breaths evened.

"What—" he started dazedly, rising to sit. She put her arm around his shoulders gently, laying the lamp down beside them.

"I think you were having a nightmare, Erik," she whispered, reaching up to wipe a shimmering tear off his face. He seemed suddenly to realize the absence of his mask; he immediately turned his face away from her, into shadow. "What were you dreaming about?" she pressed.

"I can't remember it," he said quickly.

"Well, why did you fall asleep here with no blankets or fire? You must be freezing!"

His purposeful self-neglect made her feel motherly and cross. Her hands patted down his exposed hands and face, which felt like ice against her already chilled fingers.

"I'm used to it," he replied dismissively, though he let her continue her examination. "It's not that bad, honestly—"

"Would you still think that if you had caught me sleeping here?" she interrupted testily, pulling around him the warm fur she had brought from the library. "And _what_ on _earth_ did you do to your feet?!" She gasped at the pattern of slashes across his soles—they looked as if he had walked over razor-sharp shards of glass.

He said nothing, pulling the fur self-consciously over his bare feet.

"Well, I'm going to bandage those properly in the morning, and you aren't going to sleep here anymore," she tutted, finally. "If you can't abide sleeping in a bed with me like a sensible person, the stone floor in my room is at least as soft and warm as it is here."

"What do you have here?" he asked distractedly, reaching for something. She suddenly realized that she had inadvertently brought the strange book along with her as she had been searching for him. Erik picked up the book and flipped through it interestedly.

"I couldn't sleep, so I was looking in the library for something to read," she explained.

"And you read Farsi…?" he asked incredulously.

"No, of course not. I was going to choose something else when I heard you and came looking for you. I must have brought it with me absentmindedly."

He nodded slightly in understanding, still perusing the dusty pages, his face still obscured in shadow.

"What you said—Farsi? It's a language?" she asked quietly, "Where is it spoken?"

He smiled at her charming ignorance. "In Persia, my little fjordling—somewhere far indeed from your experience."

"But you can read it?"

"Yes."

"Well, what is this book?" she asked expectantly, "What does it say?"

"Hm," his face curved into an amused expression as he thumbed further through the book, "I think you've selected a work of rather shockingly impassioned love poetry, my dear."

"Oh," she blushed, but still continued undismayed. "Well, is there any you could read to me?"

His demeanor clouded immediately, and she started to rescind her request awkwardly.

"No," he interrupted, smoothing his expression into gentler smile. "I'm sure there's something here suitable for you to hear."

He flipped through a few more pages, finally settling on still more mysterious swirling script.

"I am the moth," he began, translating slowly, a little haltingly, "that is burned—in the flame of your love."

He swallowed hard, but continued.

"I am the candle that consumes its heart in the flame of its love for you.

I am a bird that flies home to nest in your heart.

My love for you makes my heart into a priest for your adoration.

Oh beloved! Your smile could give life to dust,

Your breath could heal all the sorrows of all the worlds— it causes the gates of the Eternal Garden to fall open.

Oh, at one kiss from those ripe lips the dead would rise— all fainting, despairing souls would from your tender kiss be revived… Oh beloved, beloved…"

He had cast a spell with his tender voice. To Christine, the words no longer seemed like the exotic paean of some long-dead Persian poet to his lost love. Erik had made them his own, to his own love.

She bent forward and kissed him softly on his naked cheek, and he shuddered and gasped.

"You torture me," he whispered, his voice cracking. With his cold hands he hid his face from her kind eyes.

"Not half so much as you torture yourself, Erik," she said, rising from the stone plinth, "Come."

She made sure he put his stockings back on over his injured feet, then led him carefully back to her room.

"You're going to spend the night here from now on," she announced when they arrived. "I won't let you sleep alone any more."

"Christine…" he began argumentatively, but she interrupted him.

"We can return to your chambers if you prefer," she offered crisply, knowing he would never allow her to pass a night so uncomfortably. He sighed at her persistence.

With difficulty she pulled a huge, heavy buffalo skin from the foot of the bed and spread it on the floor in front of the warm, smoldering brazier. The soft pelt's substantial loft served as no mean substitute for a real mattress.

"Do you not have a nightshirt?" she inquired.

"No, it's not necessary. I—"

"Well, you won't wear those trousers into bed like a barbarian," she interrupted, handing him one of the thick Turkish robes from the bathroom. "You can wear this if you're uncomfortable removing them around me."

He caught her hand as she bustled past him.

"Why are you doing this, Christine?" he asked gently, his voice patient.

"You're _not_ a monster or an animal," she insisted firmly, as if someone had just said otherwise. "I won't let anyone treat you like one, not even you."

He couldn't resist the charm of her poorly-disguised kindness. He kissed her shyly, ever so lightly on her adorably stormy forehead, and her expression softened.

"I'm your wife now, Erik. If you want to limit what that means, I won't argue with you—for now, at least. But I _will_ take care of you. I won't let you be alone anymore."

He sighed in ecstasy as she pulled him into a gentle embrace, her arms warm around his chest as she burrowed her sweet head into his neck. He wrapped her in his own arms and worshipfully kissed her forehead and her soft curls, and then he couldn't stop himself from kissing her forehead again.

To his perpetual surprise, she didn't flee from him, or even release her hold on him for a long while, until his shoulder grew damp from her breath. He didn't care. He could have stood there in her arms forever.

Finally, she reluctantly let him go. "I'm going to fall asleep on my feet," she said apologetically.

_I would hold you up all night, my dearest love, _his mind answered her. But he scooped her up, tucked her into the soft bedcovers, and blew out the lamp.

"Make sure you have a blanket down there too, Erik," her sleepy voice called softly, but sternly in the darkness. He smiled and pulled a redundant silk coverlet off of the foot of her bed. It smelled like her, he noticed with relish.

That night, he slept better than any night he could remember, wrapped in warmth and soft fur, and his love so near he could hear her breath.


	5. Chapter 5: Sacrifice

Thanks for the continued support, guys! Flashback time again!

**Chapter 5: Sacrifice**

When he awoke, she was still sleeping. He could see her clearly in the light of the smoldering

furnace, though the room was quite dark. He watched her silently for a long time—her breath softly passing through her barely parted lips, making her chest rise and fall. He could hardly breathe at the thought of having passed a night beside her. He basked in the glow of such closeness.

After a while, he quietly rose, dressed, and gingerly went about lighting the lamps of her room. As the light flared, she sleepily stirred. He knelt at her bedside, and waited quietly for her to awaken.

"Erik," she finally spoke, her voice gravelly from sleep.

"Good morning, my love."

She smiled as his devotion colored his gentle voice. "Did you sleep better here?" she asked, touching his masked cheek.

"Everything in my life is better with you nearby," he said, catching her palm and kissing it lightly.

She sat up and yawned, stretching luxuriantly. She peered blearily around the room for a moment before her gaze halted with a gasp.

"Erik, your feet!"

He looked down and realized that his feet had been oozing blood as he had knelt, waiting for her. With a sigh, he leaned back awkwardly to lay hold of the wash basin towel hanging nearby to wipe at the blood now trickling down the length of his foot.

"I told you I'd bandage it," she started, rising quickly, "but looking at that, you might actually need stitches. How on earth did you do that to yourself?"

Not wanting to answer anyway, he was completely distracted by how her silk gown swirled around her otherwise naked body.

No. _No! _he shrieked at himself. His mouth watered for her, and it disgusted him. _She is not for you_, he reminded himself firmly.

She still bustled about, gathering clean rags, silk floss and a needle, and he physically shook himself to rid his mind of the unwanted thoughts.

As she knelt to examine his foot, they both stopped for a moment, remembering. It had scarcely been two weeks since they had been in the exact same position, but it seemed like years—long ago, far away, in a magical house beside a lake underground...

_That night had dragged on. He obviously wasn't going to get back at a reasonable hour, so she finally moved to blow out the lamp. Just then, a clumsy shuffle sounded just outside the door. She started when the doorknob turned._

_He staggered in clutching his side and grimacing, blood seeping out from between his fingers._

"_What happened?!" she cried._

_He tottered weakly. She guided him to the bed, shoving the covers back and laying him down on the sheets. Pulling his bloody hand away with a gasp, she could see immediately why he staggered to her door in the middle of the night. There was a deep gash in his right side, about as wide and long as his hand. The flesh was torn viciously in a straight line, as if a bullet had grazed his side, and the smooth, pale red surface of one of his ribs showed through on one side. The sheet already was stained by a swath of blood almost half a meter wide._

_Stupid men and their stupid, possessive honor. Raoul had something to do with this, she was sure, but now was not the time for interrogations._

_She helped him out of his shirt, which she silently bundled up and held on the wound, her hands shaking, instructing him to hold it there until she could get something clean. Her frightened face almost matched the skin of his desanguinated chest in its very pale, almost gray cast. He didn't make a sound apart from his quick breaths._

_She rushed to the kitchen to find clean towels and to prod the fire in the stove, pushing a needle into a spool of thread and tossing it into the teapot with water to boil. _Are there even any clean edges of skin left to sew together? _she wondered._

_When she returned to the bedroom she replaced the soiled shirt bandage with a fresh towel. He was barely conscious, but he had managed to turn so that his body weight was keeping pressure on the wound. She rolled him back over gently, and blood began to ooze from his side again. He stirred a little and groaned._

"_Christine."_

"_Erik, what happened to you?" she asked, still shaking a little as she worked._

"_It doesn't matter," he groaned dismissively. "Has it stopped bleeding?"_

"_Not completely, but it's slowing. Can you stay awake?"_

"_I'll try. Sing something to me."_

"_I can't. You are bleeding to death in front of me."_

"_Sing me a requiem, then." _

_She ignored him. "Do you have a cutting needle? My sewing needle will probably make it worse."_

"_Well, aren't you the battlefield medic?" he smiled painfully. "Not one that you could find quickly. You don't need to be afraid of hurting me. 'It's just a scratch,' as they say."_

_His ability to keep up a conversation was reassuring to her. Once the bleeding was contained, she tore another towel into strips and tied them around his ribs before going back to retrieve the needle and thread._

_She grimaced more than he did as she gingerly stitched him up. The wound was quite clean, but the size of it was concerning. She ran to fetch some brandy to rinse her work. It was the only time he winced through the entire ordeal. She couldn't help noticing how the graceful curves of the muscles winding through his torso and arms flexed as he hissed, stung by the alcohol. _He must be very strong_, she thought._

"_Can you move?" she asked him she had bound him up tightly._

"_Of course I can," he replied, weakly attempting bravado. "Sleeping in a puddle of gore doesn't really appeal to me at the moment."_

_She offered a little of the brandy in a glass to help him revive, and walked him to the couch in the drawing room and laid a fresh shirt at his feet. He ignored it._

"_Don't tell me your modesty is offended, Christine. You'd be taking it off again to change the bandage soon enough anyway. Where are you going to sleep with your mattress ruined?"_

"_Out here on the floor, I suppose."_

"_No, you won't; I'll go sleep in my room. Sleep here."_

_She shuddered, remembering the coffin. "You'll do no such thing. It's almost morning anyway. Stay there and don't argue with me."_

_He smiled at her spirit, especially displayed in his own interest this way. It made him feel warm and wanted. It was almost as if he were a real person, and they were a real couple, with a man who protected, and a woman who cared for him. He basked in the illusion._

_She went back into her room to pick up the bloody rags and put them in the kitchen tub to soak. The mattress had a large dark stain over much of it. She sighed, dragging it off the frame and into the drawing room where she could keep an eye on Erik while she worked. Sitting on the floor in front of him and resting her back against the front of the couch, she cut the stained muslin away, pulling out the soiled feathers. Resignedly, she fluffed the rest of them up, patched the hole and tacked it, making it almost as good as new. She felt his eyes on her throughout the process._

"_How can you stay awake?" she asked. "You've lost a lot of blood." _

"_I've had worse. I can't have bled more than a pint."_

"_It's also four in the morning," she reminded him._

"_So it is," he replied dismissively. "Tell me something, Christine. If I had bled to death there, on your bed, what would you have done?"_

"_I'm sure I don't know. It's a good thing you didn't."_

"_What I mean is, would you have gone back to the viscount, realizing as you surely do that it was his bullet that nearly found its mark tonight?"_

"_Why did you confront him? He isn't your concern."_

"_Your honor is my concern."_

"_He's never done anything—"_

"_Well, we won't quarrel about that today," he interrupted. "Your happiness, then."_

"_I'm very capable of judging what makes me happy, Erik."_

"_Does being here make you happy?" he asked quietly. _

"_Not especially. The floor is cold and hard, I'm sleepy, and I've just become better acquainted with the anatomy of your ribcage than I had ever intended to be."_

"_You know what I mean."_

_She sighed, trying to think of something to say._

_His cool hand, which had been resting on the seat near her head now softly reached up and touched her cheek._

"_Do you hate me very much for fighting for you, Christine? You think I'm a horrible monster?"_

"_No," she said, and tears suddenly overwhelmed her before she could continue. She held her breath to stifle an inexplicable sob._

_He wiped the tears away with a cold hand and sad eyes._

"_Thank you," he had finally whispered._

"That stupid boy…" he whispered now, resurfacing from the memory as she finished her attentions to his wounds. "Born with a silver spoon clasped firmly between his simpering lips, he thinks everything is his by right."

"Don't be ungracious," she chided softly. "You won that battle, ultimately."

"Did I?"

Her brow furrowed sadly. She slowly rose, grasping his hand, and she softly pulled him into bed beside her, settling back onto the soft pillows and tucking his head into the crook of her neck and shoulder. Her arms gently enfolded him in a soft embrace.

He could hardly breathe.

Nothing could have prepared him for the feel of this—the soft, steady beat of her heart in his ears, the rich, sweet smell of her, the taste of her breath as it wafted past his tongue.

Beyond any of this, however, was the warmth of her body beside him, around him, seeping into him as he gently, audaciously enclosed her waist with his arm. He couldn't help returning her embrace, but he dared nothing else. This was a sweet, excruciating torment he deserved—he would endure the blaze she kindled in his mind and body, and the more intense it was, the more his conscience was soothed.

_Yes_, it told him, _feel this tortuous want, and know that it will burn you forever, and you will never act to sooth it. She will never be yours._

"Of course you won," she whispered gently to his ear, as if in argument with his unspoken thoughts. "I care for him, but I wanted to stay with _you_."

_So_ gently, she pulled off his mask and pressed her lips to his forehead, and tears heated by his consuming need for her fell from his eyes onto her white shoulder.

He watched them glimmer as they trailed down her white breast, and the fire within him flaring to an inferno of desire.

Yet, he simply closed his eyes, denying every atom of himself as they each clamored for every kindred atom of her.

He let his heart immolate itself, a sacrifice to its cherished goddess.


	6. Chapter 6: The Mines of Paris

Sorry for the hiatus! I'm on spring break, so here's a little more. Summer's nigh, so I'm hoping to get even more time to write soon. Thanks for sticking with me!

* * *

><p>Chapter 6: The Mines of Paris<p>

After that night and magical morning, he never slept alone. He was always close to her, passing the night at the foot of her bed, ever her protector and servant.

But as the days gently passed in such closeness, he sensed a building restlessness in her that troubled him. He hadn't neglected her musical studies, in fact, judging her discontent to be a symptom of boredom, he pushed her even harder than he ever had.

Her voice was sublime; she was a siren to him. It didn't help his distraction for her to be constantly surrounded by this most beautiful part of her. But he didn't care. He bathed his soul in the pleasure and the pain of her.

But not every moment could be spent in music, and Erik needed time away from her for the sake of his sanity. He never asked her to leave, but after two or three hours of practicing, she always saw when his fingers seemed to itch to return to his organ. The stark silence—almost coldness—of her departures always left him uneasy.

There was never any lack of tasks for her, however. Almost every surface was coated in a layer of dust that never seemed to completely vanish, as often as she peevishly scrubbed. There were books enough in the library to draw her constant attention for years if she had been thus inclined.

She tried to bring Erik simple meals and his favorite Russian tea to tempt him into nourishment during his frenzied composing, but more often than not, she would find the dishes untouched hours later. The tea, at least, was always gone.

He nearly always did her the courtesy of dining with her in the evenings in the gallery, but they both found the conversation dull and tired. At length, every night, he would quietly follow her to her bedroom, tucking her into the huge bed, then retiring himself to the huge bison skin on the floor.

She noticed that he didn't always remain there. Several nights she had awoken alone to the very faint sound of the fully-shaded organ in the distance. Sometimes she felt him rise to replace her covers during particularly fitful nights, and occasionally she awoke and he was simply gone. He never offered to pass the night beside her, even when she shivered pointedly from chill.

"Erik," she spoke suddenly one evening over dinner, "why did you want to marry me?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "Because I couldn't live without you," he said finally.

"But I was with you almost every day before we got married. I lived with you. Why did you not propose we continue that arrangement?

"It wasn't—proper," he ended lamely.

"It wasn't proper? Ha!" she scoffed humorlessly, "I don't think there's been a more perversely chaste couple in France since Injuriosus and Scholastica. You won't even touch me when we're married—you won't so much as kiss me."

"You want me to kiss you?"

"Well, I wouldn't…"

She sighed and began again. "It's certainly within the bounds of propriety, even for you, I should think."

The room fell into a regretful silence for several moments while they both stared at their hands.

"I'm sorry," she finally spoke. "That was rude of me. You've been very kind to me, even if things aren't what I thought they would be. Perhaps I'm just a little lonely after leaving all the bright lights and people of the Opera."

"You needn't apologize, Christine. I married you because I wanted to share my life with someone. I've been living this way a long time, and so perhaps I've forgotten how dark and dull it must seem to someone else."

She smiled at the undeserved politeness.

"But perhaps, my dear, it's time for an adventure, yes? Would you like an outing?"

Her eyes lit up suddenly and adorably at the prospect. "What? Yes! Now? Shall I go get my hat?"

"Hm," he mused absently, "perhaps a scarf, or ribbon to tie up your hair… And you probably need to remove that dress…"

Her eyes grew round, and he laughed.

"And replace it with something more suitable. You don't happen to have any trousers, do you?"

"No…" she began confusedly.

"It's no matter. I probably have a pair that would fit you, and a shirt to go with it."

"But surely you're not suggesting I go about in public in _trousers_, Erik," she reasoned, shocked at his sudden _want_ of propriety.

"Oh, no, my dear. You'll be quite safe, quite out of the public eye where we're going. In fact, mine are the only eyes to see this place in perhaps nearly two thousand years. Still, despite its remoteness, I think it might interest you."

He found her the shirt, trousers, and a light black cloak, then retrieved a kerosene lantern, a large hammer, and his violin, and waited patiently for her in the gallery.

When she reappeared, he realized he had miscalculated. He had seen her in male costume on the stage of the Opera, but that was for a role. But here, she was herself—his alluring wife—and he couldn't help but stare. The now old-fashioned short cut of his old black knee-trousers displayed the shapely curve of her calves, which she had modestly concealed beneath a thin pair of black stockings. His old shirt, conversely, was left open to the third button, leaving a rich hint of her decolletage open to his view. Even dressed in men's clothing, she was a mouthwatering specimen of femininity.

_Maybe this wasn't a good idea after all_, he thought, but her eyes were still alight, and there was no way on earth he could quench their sparkle by reneging on his offer.

They left the house through another door in the main gallery, this one heavy and sealed with a heavy steel bolt and padlock.

"We're going out into the tunnels?" Christine asked uneasily.

"Yes, my dear. I mean to show you a part of Paris you've never seen before." He fiddled with the dusty, partially rusted bolt and lock, then pulled the door open with some difficulty. It creaked loudly on its hinges.

Taking the lamp and his violin, he looked out into the adjoining tunnel, and hopped down to its floor a meter below.

"Allow me," he said, offering his hand from below. She found the jump easy in the freedom of her trousers. The steady glow of the lamp revealed the extent of her surroundings—a narrow tunnel, about a meter wide and a meter and a half high, with walls composed almost entirely of a smooth, white, slightly glistening stone. The air was damp and cold.

"Is this part of the sewers?" she asked.

"No, my dear," he laughed. "If we were in the sewers, you would know it from the smell. This tunnel is part of the old gypsum mines. It connects to the sewers in a few places, but it's an entirely different system. This is one of the neater sections. It's a smooth tunnel, and easy to traverse. Other parts are craggier and often full of water. I didn't think you would be interested in going for a swim this evening, but by all means disillusion me if I'm wrong."

"No," she smiled, "maybe we could save that for some other evening."

"Then let us away. Daylight, as they say, is failing us." His words echoed ahead out of the darkness. He led the way silently ahead down an easy slope.

"Erik," she spoke quietly, unnerved a little by the way the tunnel played with the sound of her voice. "Are we going far?"

"No, only a few city blocks." He stopped suddenly, and she gasped involuntarily. "Are you frightened, Christine?"

"No," she said, too quickly.

"I won't take you anywhere unsafe, you know." He took her hand reassuringly, and finding it cold, chafed it gently. "Do you want to go back?"

"No," said quickly. "I know I'm safe with you. But we won't run into anything—unpleasant—down here, will we?"

"You mean rats? I can't promise that we won't see one or two, but they generally stay where there are more resources for them to live on—the sewers mostly."

"Well—" She wasn't sure what she meant by unpleasant, exactly. "We won't be venturing close to the catacombs?"

He laughed again quietly. "You have quite the interest in some of the seedier parts of the Paris Underground, don't you, my darling? No, I wouldn't take you there, not without the company of a score of tittering ladies and their gallant chaperones to keep you cheerful."

"Not that you have anything to fear from a pile of bones, anyway," he continued, treading forward gracefully, his voice darkening. "I'd be the only corpse down there that could reach out and touch you."

Unsure of what to say, she followed him as silently as possible down the tunnel until it widened and joined a rougher, narrower side tunnel that opened from one corner of the ceiling, and then veered off again.

"We're following that one," he said, pointing to the craggy opening above them. "The gypsum deposit peters out here, so they turned the tunnel back down into richer veins. Do you think you can climb up there?"

"I can try," she said, her foot searching for purchase against the smooth tunnel wall.

"Here," he said, kneeling down beside her feet. "Put one of your feet on my shoulder and I'll boost you up. You should be able to climb the rest of the way fairly easily."

She did as he directed, then he stood, bearing her weight up into the opening above. It was dark, and she did her best not to peer into the blackness ahead.

"Can I help you up now?" she said. Erik smiled. He couldn't remember the last time someone offered to help him. But this was one place he was quite comfortably independent. He handed her the lamp and the violin case. Taking a running leap, he ran straight up the meter of sheer stone wall, vaulting himself up neatly to land gracefully beside her.

She stared at him. "How on earth did you—" She looked mystified down into the tunnel below.

His heart swelled to know he had impressed her. "This one wasn't hard—you've never even been here and you didn't need _very_ much help to get up here. I've just had a lot of practice."

She looked into his dark eyes, wonderingly, but said nothing. He couldn't help but return her gaze—he lapped up her admiration like water.

Finally, not wanting to unnerve her by staring too long, he pointed at the strange pattern of stones beneath their feet, which disappeared into dust behind them. "This have been the remains of an old street. We're near the center of the old Roman city. I'm fairly sure we're under part of the Sorbonne, or nearly there."

"Is this the end of our walk, then?" she asked, slightly disappointed.

"No, I have one more thing to show you."

He led her along the remains of the path several meters, and the ceiling of the tunnel drew lower and lower. Finally, they had to crawl.

"Here," he said, stopping. He crawled just past a rather large stone, and set the lamp on the ground. With some effort, he wrenched the stone out of its resting place, and below it, a person-sized hole led down at an angle.

"What's down there?" she asked.

"I think I'd rather show you than tell you, if that's alright. I'll go down first," he said. "Would you like me to leave the lamp with you?"

"Um, yes, I think I would."

He nodded, edged his legs down the hole, then disappeared into the blackness below.

"Erik?"

"Yes?"

"You're… all right?"

"Yes. Do you want to come down? You'll have to leave the lamp up there for a moment."

"Is the floor very far down?" His voice seemed far-off.

"No, not far, but I'll catch you if you like."

"Yes, could you, please?"

"Yes. It's easy. Just come down feet-first. I'll be here at the bottom."

Leaving the lamp beside her, she slid into the hole and let herself fall into the dark.


	7. Chapter 7: The Mithraeum

Hi guys, thanks for the sweet reviews! You guys are so sweet and motivating, I was inspired, so here's a little end-of-spring-break treat for you before I'm buried till summer. If you want to listen to something close to what I envision Erik's performance is like, find Hillary Hahn's recording of _Chaconne_ on YouTube. Why choose her when there are recordings of Perlman or Heifetz available? Well, I think she has more of a personal, frank tone that the polish of the greats lacks, and that matches my idea of Erik better. But you can decide for yourself. Also, sorry for any editing problems. I rattled this one off fast! Enjoy!

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><p>Chapter 7: The Mithraeum<p>

He caught her easily; it really hadn't been far to fall. But he held her for a moment longer than he needed to, convincing himself that she needed the support as she regained her footing. He tried not to let himself think about her shape against him, needing his strength, nor her warmth, her softness.

Shaking the thoughts from his head, and releasing her, he clambered up the hole slightly to recover the lamp, and his violin. As the light returned, Christine gasped.

They were in an expansive empty hall, with a high, barreled ceiling. Along the longer walls, low carved benches or tables rose out of the stone floor. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust.

As she stepped into the room, something in the floor caught the light of the lamp, and she bent to clear away a patch of dust at her feet. She uncovered the source of the sparkle—the entire floor was comprised of a single, huge mosaic, nearly intact. Clearing away more grime, she saw the outline of a sword in black, sparkling pieces of jet glass against a mortared background of pearly white tesserae. Nearby, she could make out other shapes in the pattern—a crescent moon, a paten, a crown, a sistrum, a torch, a sickle. Random objects glinted at her from all over the floor.

Brighter colors caught her eye from the walls. Unable to take her gaze from the sight of them, she quietly asked for the lamp, and Erik brought it to her. Very gingerly blowing the dust from patches of the wall, she uncovered a procession of the zodiac in huge, bold frescoes all over both walls. A rampant lion, a bellowing bull, a dancing virgin cavorted on a field of the deepest blue, each at least as large as life.

The ultramarine hue extended to the vaulted ceiling, where it spread in a facsimile of the winter sky supported by ranks of _putti_. Each star was carefully rendered in its constellation, lovingly painted in gold according to its magnitude.

Finally, her eyes settled on the dim far wall. As she approached, a pair of handsome eyes caught hers, and lifting the lamp, she stared into the face of a handsome man. He knelt, dressed in a deep azure cloak with more stars—it seemed to mirror the sky above them. He wore a red Phrygian cap, and gripped a knife in his hand, which he held to the neck of a massive white bull he had wrestled into submission, a trickle of crimson blood emerging where its gleaming edge met the snowy flesh.

The man was flanked by two statues, each of a bearded, naked angel holding two keys in its hands. A snake coiled up the bodies of each of the angels, and each statue had an empty gash over its heart. The one on the left was missing a wing and its head—they lay shattered on the floor—but otherwise, they were completely intact.

"Erik," she breathed, her voice stifled in wonder. "What is this place?"

"A mithraeum," he answered quietly, his beautiful voice amplified by the huge stone walls, "a secret underground temple to the god Mithra."

"I've never heard of him," she whispered, still gazing into the handsome god's eyes. "He was a Roman god?"

"Yes, but he was a shadowy figure, even to the Romans. Only a few ever learned his secret rituals."

"How did you find this place?"

"A lucky stumble. I was back in the tunnel above us, clearing away the old Roman path just to see where it went. You can see that the wall behind us is collapsing around the old door of this chamber, and I stepped on the loosened earth, collapsing it further, and I was practically sucked down here. I twisted my ankle quite badly in the process—it took me two hours to make my way back."

She looked at him wonderingly, then again up at the sky above them.

"Do you like it?" he asked hopefully.

"Erik— it's— it's incredible… I can't even believe this is down here! How long has it been here?"

"Most of the mithraea were built in the first and second centuries after Christ. This one may have been built a little later; it's very richly decorated, and larger than most."

"So old…" she whispered, awed.

"Yes, and beautiful," he breathed, his voice echoing slightly against the cold stars. _You are more beautiful by far..._

While she was distracted examining the frescoes more closely, he yet again tried to break away from his thoughts of her. He pulled out his violin and plucked the strings, tuning them. The familiar cadence beautifully reverberating around the room woke her from her revery. She smiled delightedly at him as she watched him finish tuning the instrument.

"I think you'll find that the art isn't the only beautiful thing about this place—the Romans unknowingly built a perfect concert hall."

He struck a sharp chord powerfully with his bow, then listened to the room amplify and blend it until it sounded unearthly—a plaintive bellow from the white bull eternally sacrificed.

"Will you play something for me, then?" she asked eagerly.

_She's so beautiful. _"Of course. Any requests?"

"No, you choose."

He paused. His brain screamed at him that he was about to make a terrible, terrible, mistake, but for once, he pushed the condemning thoughts away.

"As you wish," he said slowly. "Here, sit here," he guided her gently to one of the carved seats toward the center of the hall. "The sound is best here."

He moved back toward the god, intermittently striking chords until he was three meters away from the imposing fresco, then slowly moving a step back, zeroing in on the acoustically perfect position. _This is a terrible, terrible idea._

But turning towards her, he bowed ceremonially, and raised the violin again to his shoulder.

When he began to play, she recognized the aggressive opening strokes immediately. Bach's second partita for violin, the movement that was simply called _Chaconne_. It had never struck her as a dance, as the name implied. Its alternating violent passion and aching tenderness belied the public, refined civilization of the dances she knew, suggesting a much more intimate interaction.

And now, alone with him in this ancient temple, the sound reverberating off the ancient stars, the stone rendering the wild sounds almost human, the agony and ecstasy they evoked almost pagan in their savage, unabashed animation, the music made her blush with its ardor.

His body worked with his sounds, moving with the notes. At times, his bowing was so heedlessly driving that she could see freed wisps of horsehair floating powerlessly behind each movement of the merciless bow.

If the first measures were a sob—a cry of profound grief and despair, he soon impelled the music to something far sweeter, if no less desperate. A last lover's caress, sensual and tender, but restrained, as if holding back an impassioned embrace. The notes began to move and swell together as she had never heard—a deeply physical, almost corporeal sound surrounding her, pleading with her.

He watched her, his gaze turbulent as he poured every feeling he had ever had about her into the music, another offering to her, though she didn't recognize it. Or did she? Her eyes had closed against the barrage of feeling, her hand on her heart, moving with her elevated breath. As he moved into the very sweetest notes, the quiet, yet ecstatic joy of the climax of the piece, he wished desperately that her innocent hand could be replaced by his own—so near to her heart.

The final phrases misced into a fearful prayer, a supplication to ward off the final blow from a fate-buffeted life. The notes begged her, begged the gods around them and the stars above them, for something she strained to hear, but it drained away with the final reverberation, too soon to iterate itself.

As the note died away, she opened her eyes to find him staring at her with an intensity she had never seen. He looked away self-consciously, but she needed to know what it meant—what that storm of sound she had just endured was asking her for. She stood, rising hesitantly towards him.

"Erik—"

She could see his shoulders rising and falling in breathless emotion, but his mask hid all his expression save his intensely gleaming eyes. He looked away as she tried to peer into them.

"Erik, that was so beautiful—" She reached up, as if to touch his cheek, but at the last moment, her hand fell to his lapel, clasping it, and she bit her lip uncertainly. But she needed this. She needed to see more, see what his eyes had been trying to tell her, and trying to conceal at the same time.

"Erik, can I see you? I want to see your face—"

He sighed with the sorrow and resignation of a loyal dog ordered to attack a beloved friend. He slowly bent his head to her shoulder, where her fingers could finally reach the ties holding the mask to his face. She undid them, discarding the mask and raising his chin with gentle fingers.

His face in all its horror was not softened by the kindly dimness of the room. All the death-like pallor, the missing nose, the scars of nature and of self-loathing mingling together, brutally illustrating the ravages of time and fate on his wretched life.

She didn't pull away or flinch, or in any way reflect the horror he knew she clearly saw, and his heart broke for her strength. He longed to break away, to turn and play a frivolous jig that would make her forget his face, distract her from the contemplation of the confession he had just senselessly shouted at her from the strings of his violin. He longed to conjure an illusion for her—a bright fairy land to make her forget her agreement to stay with a corpse underground. But he let her look, let her punish him with her kind, brave, searching eyes. He accepted her gaze as the sharpest, sweetest agony he could imagine. He deserved it all.

To her, his eyes seemed so full of fear, but behind that she saw something—something he wanted to reveal, but couldn't speak of. It made her think of the enchantress' spell in so many old stories—stories where nothing but a kiss, freely given, could release the monster from his illusion.

Yes.

A kiss.

She imagined the change in his face, the fear wiped away replaced by a joy he had never known, the spell broken. Like magic.

And so, without another thought, she kissed his frozen, freezing lips lightly, like a reviving summer wind.

Barely grasping what she had done, he tore away from her, a cry like a struck child's whimper breaking from his chest. What was she doing? Did she know who he was? Could she not see him in the darkness of this ancient night, that she could forget what it was she kissed?

But she gazed at him clearly, her eyes gently, comprehendingly darting over the details of his cicatrised face, studying his shocked eyes with innocent confusion—no fear, no regret, none of the horror he searched for was there, in her lovely, _lovely_ face.

What miracle, what magic was this?

Gathering her courage for another attempt, she returned to her place so close to him he could feel her breath on his naked face.

"Erik, may I—may I kiss you?"

The astounding words made his quaking, disbelieving heart thrill. The beats of angels' wings surely sounded like this—the laugh of a small child, the first bird singing at the birth of spring, and his Christine, whispering to kiss him.

Looking back later, he could never decide whether he actually assented to her request verbally or not. He simply bent his lips to hers and let himself be lost in them. He dared to kiss her back, to react to the sensation that held the strangeness of heaven to a demon, and his head exploded with stars in his closed eyes as she made a small sound of pleasure in reply, and kissed him harder. So strange was joy.

The feeling of his arms slowly, reverently closing around her made her want to kiss him until his monster's face of fear and pain, cleansed by this joy she felt in his arms and lips, radiated like an angel's. Her angel. How sweet this was! Sweeter than she could have ever imagined. The moment's relish called her tongue reflexively to her lips and his, drawing forth a frantic moan from the depths of his chest. His breath turned wild and his hands, as yet soft and gentle on her back, abruptly tensed and grasped at her hungrily, pulling her body flush with his. She suddenly could feel _exactly_ what she was doing to him, but she not only didn't care, she wanted more. She wanted to feel his eagerness, his passion for her. She wanted to make him admit to it, submit to it, let her wrap herself around him till he cried out for mercy.

Her arms wound around his panting shoulders, and he broke away from her lips to unabashedly explore her neck, all thought and reason gone, her delighted sigh in his ear made his eyes roll back in rapture. His strong hands grasped her waist and lifted her a foot off the ground; his lips found edge of her collarbone and reverenced the soft, translucent skin of her open collar.

She wrapped her legs around his hips to anchor herself while he kissed her, and the sudden closeness shocked him like a bolt from the blue. He staggered, gasping, and when she let go in concern, the sudden change of weight tripped him backwards.

A crash of glass. A flare of light. Then everything went black.


	8. Chapter 8: Lost in the Dark

Thanks again for all the great reviews, guys. They're deeply, deeply encouraging. In fact, they were so encouraging, I spat this (probably pretty rough) chapter out before school's even out for me. AND it's pretty long, for me. What nice friends you are. Keep it up!

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><p>Chapter 8: Lost in the Dark<p>

She had never experienced such thick, tangible blackness. It suffocated her sight like a blanket; she began to hyperventilate by instinct.

"Erik," she choked out weakly, her hands flailing for him or anything else to anchor her, like she was drowning in the thick darkness.

"Sh, it's all right, love," he answered soothingly, making himself available to her searching.

"Can you relight it?" she quavered, more than an edge of panic to her voice. Even once she had found his arm, she kept pawing at the air in front of her instinctively, as if to waft away the mist of ink obscuring her sight.

"Sh-sh, I'll try. But in the meantime, you're safe. Nothing down here will hurt you with me here with you. And I'll need my arm. You can keep hold of my shoulder, if you like, or my coat-tail."

His words, soft and calm as they were, did nothing, and she continued to nonsensically claw at the darkness before her, desperate now to see anything, anything at all.

"Christine," he said firmly, arresting her flailing arms, "listen to me. It's dark, but that's not going to hurt you. You are safe. You are safe. I'm here, and I won't let anything happen to you. Here—here's a sleeve of my coat, and I'll keep the other, and you'll keep a strong hold of me, right?"

He slipped off his coat and handed her the sleeve, and she took it with a soft, spasmy sound, and seemed to calm slightly.

Certain she had a grip on something of him, he bent to gingerly examine the broken lamp with his fingers, which shook clumsily, still drunk off the feeling of being gently twisted in her hair. He tried to shake off the memory of her lips on his—her tongue— No. He had to do this for her now. He'd have all the rest of eternity to torment himself with these thoughts.

The hurricane glass was shattered around the wick in sharp, sizzling shards. There wasn't even a hint of blue flame still burning, but it didn't matter—his searching fingers found the yet scorching wire frame supporting the delicate mantle, and there wasn't even a fragment of the dusty incandescing threads left to give them any useful light.

"Well, Christine," he said, affecting confidence, rising and taking a hold of her shaking shoulders. "The lamp won't do us any more good, but—"

She interrupted him with a crying gasp of panic, but he firmly grasped her shoulders, gently shaking her to reason.

"—but I need you to take a deep breath. This has happened to me before—multiple times, in fact—and I got home _just_ _fine_. Be calm. _Be calm_."

"You can get us back?" she gasped dryly. "We're not lost down here?"

"No, we're not lost," he scoffed, nearly offended. "Is that why you're so frightened? Listen, I've been down here scores of times. I can get home quite as easily in the dark as in the light."

And it was true. All his years as a ghost had made darkness his friend, but the thought had never given him so much pleasure, or made him feel so strong as now, when he could use the talent to rescue his wife.

He tried to release her iron grip on his lapel, but she wouldn't budge, and all he got for his pains was a panicked little scream as she gripped even harder against his attempts.

"Christine, listen to me: I won't leave you here. You can still hold onto me, but we need to get out in the main tunnels first. Do you remember how we hopped up here and then came down into the mithraeum? We have to go back that way again, but you won't be able to do it if you cling to me like this, and I won't be able to help you. Please let go."

He gently attempted to prise her hands open again, and this time she acceded with only a frightened little hiccough.

"Good, very good," he soothed. "Now, do you want to try to get up to the old path ahead of me, or do you want me to go up first and pull you up?"

Both the options seemed horrible to her. The room around her, once an ethereal temple of ancient wisdom, now veiled in blackness had become a tomb to her frightened imagination. Was it better to be left behind in this sepulchre, or advance ahead into a horrible blind tunnel? What if she fell through another tunnel, as he had in discovering this place, and it was even deeper and darker than this one?

"I'll stay," she said, reaching out for his hand one more time, evincing a herculean effort not to cling and never let go. "Please, _please_ don't leave me down here."

He sighed at his apparent inability to reassure her. "Do you think I would pursued you so doggedly just to abandon you to die in the dark?"

Her hand, retaining his, suddenly recoiled in horror at the words, and he sighed again, kicking himself at his cold, insensitive logic.

"I _won't_ leave you," he finally managed remorsefully. "I would _never_ leave you. I couldn't do it, even if I tried. I thought I had proved this—I nearly killed someone at the thought of him keeping you away from me. Don't you remember?"

In the darkness, she felt his arms snake around her tenderly. "I'm evil, I'm a monster, and Christine, I've told you this before, but I feel you didn't believe me, or you didn't understand me—"

He hesitated, as if his next words were being dragged from him unwillingly. "—or perhaps you simply never wanted to hear this from me. Maybe you'll hate me now for saying it again, but—do you remember how I once told you I loved you?"

He let the words ring in the blackness.

"I told you that once and then I stupidly said I'd never say it again unless you asked me to. I just want you to know that my feelings on the subject haven't changed. I'll take care of you. I won't ever hurt you or let anything else hurt you. I'd rather die before I ever left you to feel alone."

She buried her head into his shoulder.

"I won't leave you," he whispered once more, very softly. "Will you be all right now if I climb up?"

She nodded her head, still buried against his chest. He had to admit, he loved being so close to her—her _wanting_ to be so close to him, even though she was frightened. Or perhaps even because she was frightened. He had never been the remedy against fear for anyone, only the source.

In a moment, once he was certain she wouldn't cry out as he let her go, he climbed up the unstable slope, up onto the old Roman path.

"All right, I'm all the way up to the top, Christine. Can you come toward my voice?"

He had barely finished speaking when he felt her hand reaching up for him in the blackness. He clasped his around her wrist, and then her other hand, and pulled her up easily.

"There now, all in one piece, then?" He hadn't let go of her hands, and she used them to pull herself anxiously against him again. This time, since the ceiling of this part of the tunnel was so low, she ended up nearly in his lap. His breath came out in a huff as she fell against him—she wasn't very graceful in the dark, but it was more the sudden intimacy of her position against him that knocked the wind out of him.

"Thank you for helping me," she said suddenly, her voice a strange mix of mild hysteria and relief.

"Of course, of course, my dear. Any help I can render you is a delight to me. Are you still so frightened?"

"I think I'm a bit better now, but I don't think I could ever get used to this complete darkness—it's terrifying."

"I don't blame you. It's not pleasant to be deprived of one's sight, but nothing will harm you."

"Yes, I feel safer. Could we please continue, now? I really hate this—please let's go home."

He was a little sad to continue so quickly; _he_ could get very used to this—his beloved in his lap, alone, in the silent dark.

He shook his head again and tried to focus: she was afraid still, and he needed to get her home as quickly as possible. Until they reached the main mine again, they couldn't hold onto each other like this and make any progress.

"Would you like me to go first again?"

Again she was faced with the terrible dilemma—the horrible dark unknown constantly waiting each inch ahead of her, or the equal horror lurking behind her turned back. They both made her shudder, but she didn't know the way well enough to lead.

"Yes, but could you please go slowly until we get to the mine?"

"Of course."

Every pace they crawled forward, she tried to keep her fingers or some other part of her touching him—his shoes or his clothes. He was aware of a few of her little, frightened touches, and they gave him goose flesh.

"Here's the passage down. Do you want me to let you down now, or would you rather I catch you at the bottom?"

"Ah… Catch me, please."

"As you say, my lady," he said smoothly.

He deftly leapt down into the open mine shaft, employing only slightly more care than he would normally.

"Jump towards my voice, and I'll catch you."

She jumped blindly, landing exactly in his arms.

"Are you alright?" he asked, steadying her.

"Yes," she said, breathless from her leap.

"Still frightened?"

"I'll be fine now, I think. I do wish we were gone from here though."

"Let us away then. Night has caught us too soon on our evening's walk."

She laughed nervously, and the sound made him sigh silently.

As they walked carefully back, he kept one hand firmly against the homeward wall, feeling for the crack that would tell him they had returned to the camouflaged door. The other hand she kept firmly in hers.

"Erik, your violin—" she remembered after a few moments.

"That chamber has been undisturbed by anyone but me for millennia now; it will still be there when I go back for it. Let's get you home for now."

As he felt his way along, he couldn't keep his mind away from her, what she had done scarcely ten minutes ago. What did it mean? He had _never_ dreamed of being kissed like that. He had inadvertently stumbled into the nest of a pair of opera lovers once or twice during his career as resident ghost, their arms locked around each other, their lips fastened. He had always frightened them away, of course. Those encounters had left him with some sort of green feeling—whether jealousy or sheer nausea, he had never been able to tell. But it was obvious that a connection like that would never be for him.

Yet, there it was, just minutes ago; it had come without him ever asking for it, or even daring to think of it. He knew she could see him. Nothing had shielded her from his horrible face, yet she now was far more terrified of the dark than she had been with him—she hadn't shown any fear at all. Not only no fear, but her lips had seemed hungry. His mouth watered to remember it. And her tongue… Oh, her tongue...

What did it mean? Could it happen again? If _he_ dared to kiss _her_, would she receive him so warmly?

But he couldn't think of that now. The wall was changing in texture, they had made good time. Surely the door was here somewhere.

"Christine," he stopped, and took her hand in both of his. "May I let you go for a moment? I think the door is nearby; I need to feel for it."

She surprised him by following the length of his arms and enclosing him in an embrace.

"Yes, you can go. I just—need to feel you close for a moment first." She buried her head again in his shoulder. He was only too glad to hold her as long as she needed. Though it was dark, he closed his eyes against the pleasure of it.

"This comforts you?" he asked, not quite believing it. He could feel her as she nodded her head against him, and let the feeling of her warmth radiate through him. Oh, that he were free to hold her this way always. He imagined how many men slept in the arms of their wives and lovers in the world above them, and it meant so little to them. He would never aspire to so much as that, but just this simple, innocent embrace was so magical to him. He could continue forever, and he didn't think the feeling of peace and warmth it gave him would ever wear away.

Far before he was ready to release her, she loosened her hold on him, reminding him that while he might be quite comfortable here, the dark made her uneasy. He must get her home now.

"It should only take me a moment to determine where we are. I'll be right back if we still have a ways to go," he said, finally letting her go to examine the wall.

"I'll just stay here, then," she replied lightly.

The wall of the mineshaft was cold and clammy with an even texture, as he expected, and he raised his hands high over his head to feel for the distinguishing features he was looking for—a long, even strip of sandy granite to contrast with the crystalline gypsum. It marked the cross-section of a foundation of some kind, the very ancient foundation his own house now rested on. It was only a minute or two before he found it, but the whole time he could hear her anxious fidgets behind him.

"Here we are, Christine. It won't take a moment to find the actual door now."

He had, perhaps foolishly, left the door ever so slightly ajar, not anticipating any intruders in the short time that they would be out. This section of the tunnels was not as popular with the thieves and assassins that frequented the Paris catacombs, mostly because of its remoteness to any interesting location in the city above. At least, he very much hoped this was true as he patted the cold stone surface, feeling for the little crack.

There it was.

A thin, almost imperceptible break in the rock beneath his fingers. He prised at it, opening it slowly, and light raced out of the breach, flooding the mine shaft with brilliance and dazzling them both for a moment. It was only the lamp he had left lit in the gallery, but to their dark-deadened eyes, it seemed like the sun for a moment.

As soon as she realized that they had made it back to the strange house, she laughed shakily from the relief of it. He helped her climb up into the huge, still-dazzling room, and then shut and padlocked the door behind her.

"Thank you, thank you, Erik, for bringing us back here so expertly. If it had just been me we would have been trapped down there forever!" He could see her still shaking from fear and the sudden relief of it, but she surprised him by hugging him happily in spite of her nerves.

"Please, Christine, it was nothing," he said, returning her hug but releasing her quickly. "I should be begging your forgiveness rather than receiving your thanks; I shouldn't have taken you down there without taking more precaution. I'm just not used to thinking of company, I'm afraid."

"No, it was a grand adventure," she said shakily. He was fairly certain she was just trying to be gracious about it, however.

"How can I set you at ease now? Some more wine? I don't think we quite finished that bottle over dinner—"

"No, I think I'll be fine. Maybe I'll take a quick bath though."

"Let me stoke the water heater for you, then. You've already shivered enough for one evening."

She assented meekly and followed him closely back to the bedroom, and thence to the bath. He had the fire relit in a moment, and then, leaning over the faintly lapping water, he held his hand into the stream from the stone lion's head until the water was warm.

"There, that should be comfortable for you. I'll—ah—leave you to it, then."

"Erik, wait, please," she called after him as he tried to make a hasty exit.

"Yes?"

"Erik, I— well, I hate to ask this of you—"

"Anything, my dear. You have but to name it and it is done."

"Well, I confess I'm still a bit shaken by this evening's events. I— Well, that is, I hope it's not improper to ask— I mean, we're married, after all—" She shuffled her feet and paused.

He was deeply puzzled by this show of embarrassment. It made him uneasy, but he let her continue with her mysterious request.

"Would you consider staying here while I bathed?" she finally stammered out. "Your presence was so reassuring to me back there, and, well, I would be so much less uneasy if you agreed to stay with me."

He choked as his brain struggled unsuccessfully to frame a coherent answer.

"Oh, you needn't join me, of course!" she gushed out quickly. "And you needn't even stay if it makes you uncomfortable. I can manage. I just thought maybe, if you wanted, you could maybe just sit over here. Perhaps you could read, or something—"

She motioned to a spot beside the armoire full of linens, where the bulky piece of furniture obscured the view of all but the far corner of the pool.

The thought of staying with her in such an intimate moment made him deeply, deeply uncomfortable. He felt like Actaeon of old—only a few planks of wood between the sacred sight of a goddess bathing and his utter ruin. He didn't belong there, it was sinful for him to want this, and yet oh, how he wanted it…

There was no help for it anyhow, though, as he had already promised to fulfill anything she wished. He sighed.

"If you're very sure you want me here, Christine, I will stay," he said painfully, settling himself in the place she had designated.

"Oh, erm, Erik?" came her voice after a moment's sounds of struggling. "I can't quite get the clasp on my dress here—"

As he rose to come to her aid, the sigh of a martyr escaped his lips. She reddened when she heard it.

"Oh! If this is all too much to ask, Erik, I'll be fine here without you, truly. It was such a silly request. Please forget I asked—"

"It is _not_ too much to ask," he interrupted sardonically, angry at himself for flustering her with his own accursed weakness. She quailed slightly before his sudden flash of frustration, and he sighed regretfully at hurting her feelings yet again.

"No, my dear one, I'm very happy to help you with anything you may need. Forgive me my awkwardness. Where is the clasp you're struggling with?"

"Just there," she said, lifting her hair from her white neck in a riotous jumble of shining curls. He swallowed.

The clasp was undone easily enough. He turned back to his safe hiding spot behind the armoire before he could even see if she needed more help.

"Thank you," she called softly, and he had to stifle a moan of pain as the soft sounds of the folds of her clothing falling to the floor assaulted his ears, amplified by the stone and the water. He clapped his hands over his ears reflexively. _There's no end to this torture…_

No. He had assented, and he would see this through manfully, not cowering like a child. He need only distract himself with some snatch of a lesson from childhood, or some figure to solve, and he would be fine. Prime numbers, there's the ticket. _One, three, five, seven, eleven…_

He heard the kiss of her naked feet on the stone as she stepped toward the water.

_Thirteen, seventeen…_

A soft splash of the water against her skin as she entered the pool.

_Nineteen, twenty-three…_

She let out a soft purr of contentment at the warm water as it rippled around her body.

_Twenty nine…_

He could hear the stream of water impeded by her supple skin as it fell.

_Mercy_.

This wasn't working. Numbers were too simple. Latin, then. _Arma virumque cano Troiae qui_…

"Erik, thank you again for staying," came her voice from behind the wardrobe. "I know it's probably uncomfortable for you to have to sit on the floor there. I should have gotten you a towel to sit on, or a chair."

"No, it's quite all right," he choked out quickly. _Italiam fato profugus Laviniaque venit…_

A strong splashing sound rang out. She must have wrung out her hair, or… _No_. Greek, then. _Menin aeide thea Peleiadeo Achileos… _

It would never end, he thought between snatches of Homer. The moments dragged by as he fought against his thoughts as if they were a great, ferocious beast, and he only armed with snatches of ancient poetry and his own resolve not to see her in his head—the gleaming drops scattering off her skin as she moved—

_oulomenen he muri Achaiois alge etheke..._

"Erik, erm— Do you think I could ask you to fetch me a towel?"

_God help me._

He rose and turned as fast as he could to the front of the armoire to open it, but not without the briefest glimpse of her hiding shyly in the deepest part of the pool, the water up to her neck, her wet hair smoothed against her scalp. He sighed, and pulled out the largest towel he could find.

"You are ready for it now?" he called.

"Yes."

He then turned and opened the towel, holding it out in front of him, forming a barrier between his eyes and whatever sweetness lay beyond it. He heard her emerge, water trickling off her body languidly. In a moment, her gleaming feet and calves appeared beneath the towel as he held it up, and he nearly threw it around her in a mad rush to turn around and put his back to her.

"Thank you," she said behind him.

"Let me get you a robe," he returned, reaching for one with the very longest hemline. He held it out for her as he had the towel, carefully concealing her location from his gaze. He felt her arms go through the sleeves, and he released the collar as she tied the sash around her waist.

"Thank you again," she said, turning to face him. "I feel much better now. And thank you for staying with me. You didn't have to agree—it was sort of an awkward request."

He stifled another groan.

But now that she was more or less clothed, he found he couldn't resist watching her. She retrieved a comb from the wash stand and started working it through her hair, occasionally blotting very wet strands with the towel. It mesmerized him to watch such a commonplace, yet deeply intimate moment. In some ways it enchanted him more than anything she had ever done—the simple trust of her combing out her hair in his presence, not minding that he was there watching. There was something incredibly appealing about it.

As she finished, she regarded him with a very benign smile. Perhaps a little too benign.

"Erik, do you think you could help me with one last thing?"

"Anything."

The assent came out before he could think, and he winced as her smile turned mischievous.

"I think I banged my shin trying to jump down into the mine shaft. I know if I don't take care of it now, it will bruise like anything, but my fingers are still a little shaky," she said, hunting through the various potion bottles in the chest by the pool. She finally pulled out the mint-infused oil, flushing slightly. "Would you be willing to help me?"

The little seductress. He almost laughed at her innocent attempt at brazenness. But he'd show her that he could be stone if he needed to be. He'd show her…

He took the oil from her hands and motioned for her to sit on the chair by the washstand. As she settled, she raised the hem of the robe over her leg, stopping just short of her thigh. He cursed mentally; he wasn't strong enough to handle this. He had never seen so much of a woman, let alone touched her. He tried desperately—and unsuccessfully—to force the waves of desire back as they streamed through him. An ache settled at the root of his torso. _Why did I agree to this?_

But his lust ebbed away as he examined her leg—it was probably too late to prevent the bruise. A large reddish-purple blotch bloomed across her shin already. He hissed at the sight.

"I'm afraid I'll hurt you if I touch it..."

"No, it's all right. If you chafe it firmly enough now, the bruise will hurt less and go away faster."

He hesitated.

"It's all right. I can be brave," she prompted. "It's just a bruise."

"If you're sure," he said slowly, pouring some of the oil into his palm.

She jumped slightly at the first touch of his cold hands, and bit her lip when he started to work on the bruise, but no sound escaped. After a moment's kneading, she started to relax, and he became less preoccupied with her discomfort, and more taken by the alarming softness of her leg beneath his fingers. Self-loathing mixed powerfully with his guilty pleasure at the experience. She needed help, she was in pain; he shouldn't be enjoying this as much as he was. But, oh—her bare skin was like satin under his fingertips. Firm, but yielding to his rhythmic pressure… His mind was a haze of her.

_No_! _Litora multillet terris iactatus et alto vi superum saevae memorem Iunonis ob iram…_

He had gotten through twenty drunken lines of Latin before the oil was more or less rubbed in. He wished he were more glad about the opportunity to finally stop touching her, but he couldn't help but wish for more torture.

"Is there any more you would have me do for you?" he asked finally, wincing at the sudden raspiness of his voice.

"Well, I'm tired now, I suppose," she said, shyly draping the robe over her leg again. "Are you ready to retire?"

He choked back yet another groan. To pass another night at her feet, to listen to her breath while visions of her bathing, of her naked legs tormented him into the morning… He would never be ready for that.

"I suppose I am."

"Then shall we?"

"After you."

She led him back into the chilled bedroom, where he stoked up the brazier for her. She knelt down before its warmth and ran her fingers through her hair a few times, cajoling them to dry in the hot air. Within a moment, the entire room smelled like her hair.

The smell made him strangely dizzy, but it was the most pleasant dizziness he had ever experienced.

"Christine, I'll leave you now to get dressed in peace, shall I?" he asked awkwardly, suddenly eager to be away, just for a moment, from her cloud of sweetness that was now filling the room.

"Oh, but I'd very much like you to stay…"

"Please, Christine," he groaned more earnestly than he had meant to. She gaped at him, as if suddenly struck by something she hadn't considered.

But he didn't care if she realized what she was doing to him. She might as well know now how his entire body ached after her. How his mind was fevered, and if he wasn't mindful of them, his teeth would begin to chatter from want like a dog's, tethered from chasing down its favorite prey. He didn't care if she realized how much he wanted her. In fact, he hoped she would, and that it would terrify her. He was a monster, and it was time she recognized it.

"Of course you may go if you need to," she finally said quietly, sadly, and he bolted suddenly, as if she had been physically restraining him.

He'd have to go back of course, but hopefully by then she would be dressed, covered up to her neck in silk coverlets and furs, and if his luck held out, sound asleep. He all but ran straight to his organ, pumped the pedals furiously, pulled out all the stops, and began a vehement fugue, pounding out his frustration on the delicate ivory keys. Music usually offered him a potent release, but his irritation only grew as he wrestled with his thoughts, unable to get her out of his head. He rattled off the last notes of the piece with a cry of frustration.

He seized the lamp that lit the room and took off down the hall. He raced past the door of the bedroom, hopefully only imagining that he heard her voice call his name, toward the gallery and the padlocked door. His fingers shook impotently as he fumbled with the padlock, but finally getting it open, he threw open the door and descended into the blackness beneath him, closing the door tightly behind him.

The tunnel seemed colder now, even though he had a lamp to see by. There was no little hand clutching his trustingly now. He was alone, as he was meant to be. He flew down the narrow shaft to the divergence, reaching it three or four times as fast as he had earlier in the evening. He climbed up, crawled through the narrow fork, and then down again into the mithraeum.

The broken shards of the lamp lay undisturbed on the mosaic floor, a shadow of spilled oil soaking into the mortar. His violin, too, lay serenely nearby in its open case, the bow still resting across the taut strings, cast aside and forgotten in a moment of passion.

The memory of her lips on his, so fresh in this time-frozen place as to slice through him like a knife, brought him to his knees.

_Why, WHY was I given the form of a monster, but the heart of a man, and an angel to love? Why am I so weak?_

"Why?" he finally whispered aloud, still kneeling. He looked up at the handsome god gazing silently back down at him. There were no answers here, beneath the gilded stars.

But there was no time to consider them either. Remembering his duty, his beloved alone without him and only a camouflaged unlocked door to guard her, he carefully gathered the broken shards of the lamp into his handkerchief, packed away the violin in its case, took up both burdens and his light, and left the temple in blackness. It took him even less time to traverse his way back to the concealed door.

Entering the house and divesting himself of his violin, he returned softly to the bedroom, only to find her curled up in a shaking ball on the bed, surrounded by a garrison of guarding pillows.

"Christine, what happened?" he asked in alarm, pulling away pillows to make sure she was unharmed. He could see she was in tears.

"I heard you leave, and I was afraid I had made you angry. I was worried you weren't coming back…" She gave a little frightened sob.

"Oh, my dearest, I only left to get my violin. You know I would never leave you…" He willed her to trust his sincerity.

"I know, I'm being ridiculous. It's just that when I heard you leave, I felt like I was back down there, alone and blind. It's stupid, but that's always been one of my worst fears since my father died. I hate being alone."

"Well, I'm back, and I won't leave you any more without telling you, and certainly not when you've had a trying evening like this. What can I do to chase away your fears? Shall I sing to you?"

"No, it's much better now that you're just here. Will you stay with me tonight?"

"Of course, of course, I'll be right down by your feet and I'll protect you. I won't go anywhere the whole night."

"Well, actually, I meant, could you stay up here, beside me? Erm—in the bed? I won't try anything like I did earlier; I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you, and I don't mean to now."

He was struck dumb by her request. To pass a night in her bed? Unthinkable. His tongue turned to stone.

"You can refuse with no consequence, Erik. I will be fine either way. I just thought I'd ask."

She was still shivering in a little, huddled ball. She looked so small and vulnerable, yet he knew she had the power to destroy him with her rejection. If he ever overstepped his bounds, frightened her, or broke her trust in him, she could flee from him physically or mentally, leaving his life in shambles. And this request—it was as if she asked him to balance on the edge of a knife over this oblivion. He didn't know if he had the strength to protect her from the horrible monster inside him that purred in pleasure with the thought of passing a night so close to her. There would be no distance or barrier to help him keep it at bay. It terrified him.

But she was so small. So frightened. So lovely.

"All right," he finally said, resigned to his peril. He let her pull him down beside her, a sweet siren luring him to his doom.


	9. Chapter 9: The Pang of Possibility

Whew! Here it is, guys! Thanks for being patient, and thanks for the awesome reviews! Shout out to monarch, Tratieluver, and Mrs. Thorton for their particularly faithful encouragement! This is a longer chapter, so hopefully it's worth the wait.

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><p>Chapter 9: The Pang of Possibility<p>

It had been years since he had slept in a bed. It had been one of the penances he voluntarily undertook for all his crimes and for his very nature as a beast. Beasts don't get beds.

Yet in many ways, this plush feather bed with its furs and silks felt less comfortable to him that night than any coffin or stone floor. As soon as he lay down, he could feel the heat of her little form beside him, yet he didn't dare touch her, and being in a bed with her was almost as bad as being in the same room as she bathed. He took a deep breath or two to clear his head and strengthen his resolve, but then his lungs were full of her scent.

He finally just rolled his back to her—the best he could do to try to forget where he was. He also thought it would be easier on her if he faced away from her—his mask still lay with his violin in the other room. A vision appeared in his mind of her shrieking in fright, startled awake suddenly by the sight of a mutilated skull lying beside her. She was brave before his naked face by the light of day, but would a sleepy glimpse of him shake her? He shuddered at the thought, moving the bed slightly.

She spoke as soon as his fit of restlessness had ceased.

"Are you so uncomfortable here with me?" she asked quietly.

"No, I'm fine."

Her returning silence made it clear how credulously this was received. He started when he felt her hand on his back.

"Tell me what's wrong, Erik," she said, her voice warm.

"Nothing…" he sighed. She cleared her throat impatiently.

"Nothing with you, anyway," he amended. "This is just—_difficult_—for me." He chose the words carefully.

"Why?" As she spoke, she snaked a warm, soft arm around his waist. He sucked in a sudden breath.

"_That_ is why," he groaned.

She took his arm and turned him back over to face her.

"You don't like this?"

He laughed humorlessly. "Of course I do. I like it far, _far_ too much."

"Then why resist so tenaciously? Wouldn't you find it pleasant to sleep in my arms?"

"Wouldn't _you_ find it alarming to awaken in the arms of a corpse?"

"Ah—I don't think so, if it was really you. If I did, I should think I would return to my senses as soon as I was awake enough to remember where I was."

"I wish you would come to your senses _now_," he said gloomily.

Her silence was hurt. She removed her arm and sighed, rolling onto her back to stare at the stone ceiling.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. But Christine, I'm a monster. I have no business being in your bed. I keep waiting for the moment you'll suddenly realize this, and you'll run away and never come back."

She sighed again. "You are far less frightening than you think you are, Erik, at least to me. And we're married. You belong beside me. If you ever frighten me again, it would only be because I haven't quite gotten used to that yet."

Yet. What a lovely word. He turned himself further towards her, just to catch the look of sincerity that matched her lovely voice. To think that she would yet take the time with him to get used to this closeness. He smiled in pleasure at the thought.

"Would it be easier if I wore the mask just for tonight, to give you a chance to—to get used to me here?"

"No, of course not. It's dark. I can barely see you. And if I could, I still don't think it's necessary. Isn't it uncomfortable?"

"Yes," he said cautiously, not sure what her point was. When had his comfort ever been an issue in anything?

"Then you shouldn't have to wear it. Ever."

He took this in in silence. Half of the reason he ever wore it was, in some ways, for his own comfort around other people. It masked his self-consciousness. Strange monster, to not want to inspire horror.

They lay beside one another, disengaged in all but thought for several moments before she suddenly turned to face him again, putting an arm around him once more.

"So," she said, her tone turned suddenly teasing. "If you won't be able to sleep with my arms around you, what will you want to do instead?" She drew her hand down his bicep, giving him gooseflesh.

He huffed, rankled by her breeziness. He was doing this for her; she could at least do him the courtesy of not complicating things for him. He rolled away from her again, out of her caressing arms, his elbows pinning his hands firmly to his ribs.

Laughing again playfully, she sat up and let herself fall gently over his waist, and it wasn't her slight weight that took his breath away.

"What—what are you doing?" he gasped, alarmed at the sudden attack. Her chest was dangerously close to his arm.

"Playing," she answered coyly, wriggling the rest of the way over him until she was face-to-face with him in the handspan of space until the edge of the bed.

"What are you playing _at_?" he asked gruffly, refusing to move an inch.

"Being your wife, apparently," she giggled.

He sighed, and smiled begrudgingly at her high spirits. How could she be so buoyant after all she had been through? Even just this evening?

"Aren't you tired?"

"Yes, but I can't sleep with all your tossing and turning and huffing and puffing. Also, I don't have much room to sleep here." She was so close her sweet breath blew in his face and every succeeding breath she took pressed her chest dangerously close to his yet tightly folded arms.

"Both of those unfortunate circumstances are of your doing, if you would be so good as to recall it. If you command me back to the floor, I will happily go."

"Happily?"

He could hear a pout in her voice. But even as he had said it, he knew it wasn't true. Even having been in bed with her only minutes, he felt like the bison skin over the hard stones would be a true banishment. He unfolded his arms slowly, so she could flee if she wanted, and tenderly drew his fingertips down her arm, leaving gooseflesh in their wake. It caught his breath a moment when she hummed in pleasure.

"No, not happily. But willingly, if you wanted me to," he responded, his voice sad all of a sudden.

"I want you to stay," she whispered.

He breathed, willing the words to waft into his lungs and thence to his heart, where he planned to keep them safely forever. How incredible, how adorable she was, even if he couldn't bring himself believe her. He nearly felt like a man when she said such things.

"Then I suppose you'll need more room," he finally said, still letting himself bask in her affirming words. He moved over, leaving her enough room to lie on her back, but not much more. He huffed out a breath of delight as she closed the distance entirely.

"I'm a little cold," she said apologetically. "Would I be a nuisance if I crowded you a bit until I'm warmer?"

"No," he breathed. She could do whatever she wanted with him.

He moved his arm out of her way, and she timidly placed her head on his shoulder, her arms tucked in tightly against his side. He wasn't exactly sure how to respond appropriately, but it felt right to let his arm fall gently around her. As he did so, she snuggled in a little closer, and it sent a flush settling through him.

"You never answered my question, Erik," she complained.

"What question is that?"

"If you won't be content with just sleeping next to me, what else did you want to do?" she asked around a yawn.

"Well, _this_ among other things," he explained as he drew her ever so slightly closer.

He hoped very much she wouldn't press the matter further.

"It's not so bad, is it?" she said sleepily.

"No." He smiled.

"Would you mind if I went to mass tomorrow? I think it will be Sunday…"

"You could go to mass tomorrow and every day other day if you wanted to."

She only answered with a sleepy hum of acknowledgement, and it was only a minute or two later that he could tell from her steady breathing she was asleep.

He, on the other hand, couldn't find the peace she had succumbed to. Too-rosy images paraded through his mind as he tried to squash them one by one. The memory of her soft, translucent red lips tantalized him—he could almost see the tender pulse suffusing through them. Her eyes were a deep, cold spring before a thirsty man. These did not trigger his eager guilt so much as they made him uncomfortable, but one vision kept returning like a plague on his mind—his love, clad in nothing but loveliness, lying on this very bed, her curls arrayed in a lustrous nimbus about her head.

_No_.

His arm tensed reflexively around her shoulders, as if to shield her from the ravenous monster inside his head, for only a monster could ask such a thing of her, even on the threshold of dreams. He would guard her from this fiendish appetite, an odious Cerberus guarding the gates of hell.

He focused on her soft, serene breath, the quietness of that moment. Despite the unrest of his mind, tranquility was all around him, and he reveled in the novelty of it. Eventually, his mind slowed to the rhythm of her breath, and he began to drift into the warm darkness.

* * *

><p>She rose early to find him already awake, but they were both stiff from not moving all night—she had been too tired to move, and he too anxious. He watched her closely in the dim light as she sat up and stretched, her hair adorably disheveled. He fully expected her to realize suddenly what a mistake the night before had been—how she must have been insane to have let him into her bed.<p>

But all she did was yawn, and smile at him groggily. What magic.

"You look like you've been awake all night," she said.

"Not the whole night."

"But much of it. I'm sorry if I flailed too much. I once struck a friend in the face in my sleep—she had a black eye in the morning."

He smiled. "No, you were perfectly still all night." He had checked several times to make sure she was still breathing.

"Too bony?"

"Too novel, I think." _Too lovely._

His lack of familiarity with one of the simplest human experiences pained him. He needed to change the subject. "But if you want to go to mass, you'd best get ready."

"Oh, mass! I had almost forgotten. Do you want to come with me?"

"I am always with you, my darling."

"Yes, but will you come sit with me?"

"No."

She pouted adorably. "Then what will you do the whole time?"

He smiled. "Tell me, Christine, what do angels do during mass? I mean, should they be in the neighborhood while a mass is being celebrated?"

"I don't know. I suppose, if their work takes them near a service, they pay respect and worship in their own way."

"Yes, I see," he smirked. "I think that shall be my tack this Sabbath day. Go ahead of me and I'll meet you at the church, shall I?"

"Which church should I go to? I don't know this neighborhood very well."

"There are probably closer churches, but Saint-Sulpice isn't far, and it's deserted most days, even Sundays. The poor priest often says the service for God alone, or for the occasional passerby angel of yours."

"Where shall I look for you, if you won't sit with me?"

"In the preludium, my dear," he answered enigmatically, "and the offertory. Every note you hear will be sent to you by your angel of music."

* * *

><p>Charles-Marie Widor was a middle-aged paragon of Gallic splendor. Tall, dark, talented, and reasonably lucky, the stars had aligned throughout his life to land him in his current appointment—the organist of Saint-Sulpice. In conversation he tended to leave out the fact that the appointment was provisional, and had been for the past ten years.<p>

The organ of Saint-Sulpice was his pride, joy, and only love, and rightfully so—with its one hundred stops, no other organ in Paris, or even in Europe matched its versatility and quality, at least in Widor's opinion.

Of course, it had its faults. The fact that it was housed in ugly, unpopular Saint-Sulpice minimized its impact among music lovers, and once they finally did wend their way into the seats for mass or a recital, few heard its best, owing to its concave arrangement.

It was definitely a design flaw, but in a way, it was as if the organ reserved and focused its finest tones around Widor as he played, as if it truly sounded only for him. He didn't care that there was rarely enough people to be called an audience below to hear him. He never lost the drunken giddiness he felt at sitting down at its five manuals, though the years of obscurity had accumulated.

This particular Sunday was no different. He unlocked the massive wind turbine that fed the hungry bellows, and listened to the faint, familiar hiss as pressure built in the wind system.

"_Widor_…."

He started, then smiled. It wasn't the first time he had fancied he had heard his beloved whisper his name as he lovingly prepared it for the day's work. The hiss fluctuated with the wind turbine's purchase in the morning air above the church, and it sometimes sounded like the whisper of human speech.

"_Widor_…." came a lovely whisper again, now apparently from the ecstatic carved angels above him.

He gaped, looking up at the detailed facade, and locked the turbine. The hiss dyed away.

"_Widor_…"

He stifled a yelp as he jumped up and away from the bench.

"_Don't be afraid, Widor,_" came the soft, ethereal whisper again. He gasped as the switch for the turbine lock inexplicably turned, starting up the turbine again. "_We mustn't delay, you see. Mass begins in but a few minutes_."

"Wh—who are you?" the startled man choked out.

"_I am the guardian of this instrument_," the empyreal voice came again, this time from the very pipes themselves.

"What do you want?"

Several stops on either side of the manuals popped out, as if a phantom organist sat at the bench he had just fearfully vacated.

"_You have served us well, Widor; protected us from those who would maim us for fashion's sake._"

The last words were a menacing hiss. Widor relaxed a little. It was true; he had always resisted the fashionable tunings over the years, insisting that the overworked, but enthusiastic organ tuner retain the tone with which his master, the great Cavaillé-Coll, had endowed the angelic instrument initially. He had even once come near to blows when he caught the man undermining his orders. No one would tamper with his beloved.

"_Yes, you are worthy and noble of heart. Now you will receive your reward, chevalier,_" the voice continued, "_for chevalier you shall be known hereafter. Today, you are accompany me on the choir organ, and the faithful few below us will think that angels preside at this mass, and they will not be far wrong. Tomorrow, your fame will be known throughout France_."

The poor, superstitious man, head spinning from the apparition and its prognostication, climbed down from the main organ loft in a daze. In his haste to ascend and ready the choir organ, he nearly knocked over a young woman, her head mantled in such a thick, dark veil, he could hardly see her in the gloom of the nave. A few hasty muttered apologies, and he disappeared.

The young woman, apparently uninterested in being noticed, but perhaps looking for someone, pulled her black mantilla closer around her, and found a seat in a shadowy corner of the nave.

As the first notes of the prelude began, she was unaware that a watchful shadow had followed her into the church, settling into an adjacent chapel.

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><p>Christine found Erik nonchalantly reading by the fire in the library when she returned from that supernal mass, as if he had never moved, as if that seraphic music had all been a figment of her imagination. When he asked her how the service was, she was incoherent.<p>

"I've never heard anything like it! How did you— do you know the organist?"

"Hm, is it still that Widor fellow? Saint-Saëns had him installed there a number of years ago, and I imagine he's never left. A promising talent, I daresay. I've heard him perform once or twice."

"But you—you said you'd be there, in the music. It was— Surely you—"

But her incipient interrogation was interrupted by the far-off, yet distinct sound of a claxon. Having never heard the like of its alarming clang before, she forgot what she was trying to say. Erik lept up almost instantly, a stricken look on his face, and turned to stride out of the room.

"Stay here," he commanded as he turned the corner out of view.

Never one for commands, Christine waited a few moments before following. At first, she couldn't see where he had gone, but as she approached the steps up to the house above ground, she began to hear voices.

"Where is she?" a foreign-accented voice demanded. "What have you done with her?"

"She is perfectly safe, Daroga," came Erik's proud, perturbed voice. "You bore me with your womanish concern."

"Let me see her, please," the foreigner asked, more quietly this time.

"You have no cause to be making demands. You yourself said you followed her here like a sneaking spy. How on earth did you even find her?"

"A hunch, Erik. I know you're fond of that church for multiple reasons. I thought, since it was Sunday, that you'd take her to church. I found her easily enough—you might try to teach her a thing or two about moving unseen—but I wondered where you were until I heard the organs begin to play. Did you terrorize that poor organist into letting you play in his stead?"

"I didn't terrorize anyone," a hint of pride slipped into Erik's voice. "He was more than willing to cede his bench to a true master for one Sunday service."

"Fine, fine. Now please let me see the girl," the foreign man said impatiently.

"What you seem not to grasp, O sapient Daroga, is that this is my house, and she is my wife, and neither of us will brook orders from you."

"Your wife?" Christine thought she had never heard anyone sound so stricken.

"Yes, I told you I'd marry her."

"But—surely she didn't agree to that. She was in love with the viscount!"

"She had a change of heart. Nadir, I tire of this conversation. I've already told you to leave. You more than anyone know you'd best take my advice."

"Erik," the man said, his voice somewhat less confident. "I know I'm being a fool. But for the sake of the girl's safety, I must see her and talk to her. You surely can understand why I must."

"You have some gall, Persian," Erik replied irritably, "but I suppose I sympathize with your need to see that she's safe. If you swear you will never bother us again without an invitation, I will take you to her."

"I swear to never visit you again without probable cause."

"Your comprehension of my French is still lacking, I see. But I suppose I'll never get rid of you as easily as asking you to stay away from us, will I, old friend?"

The man chuckled nervously.

"Come then," said Erik.

Christine scurried back to the library, where she hastily seated herself with a book.

"We have a guest, my dear," Erik said, striding into the room, his eyes narrowing at her ever-so-slightly flustered appearance. She noticed instantly that he had retrieved his mask and wore it now.

"Oh?" she returned innocently.

"Yes, you've met my Persian friend once before, and now he has graciously called to inquire after your wellbeing. Would you like to receive him?" His tone was markedly chilly. "Feel free to refuse, if you are indisposed."

"No, I would quite enjoy company, actually," she replied warmly. He bowed, and brought the man in.

"Monsieur Khan, I believe," she said, extending her hand to the shorter man politely.

"Yes, yes," the Persian smiled, obviously pleased to be accepted. "So wonderful to see you again. My apologies for intruding. It's just that after our last—erm—meeting, I was somewhat anxious about your welfare."

Erik rolled his eyes and coughed, but said nothing.

"How kind of you," Christine replied graciously, hoping a little gentility would smooth the rough atmosphere. "As you can see, I'm quite well."

"Yes, I do see," he said. "Forgive me, but you are married then?"

"Yes," she said simply.

"I see. And—please do humor an old man—you are here of your own accord? You aren't forced to be here, and you weren't compelled to marry Erik?"

A low sound of ire erupted from the darkened corner where Erik brooded. Christine stared at her husband for a moment until the sound stopped, then continued.

"Yes, I'm here and married both of my own free will, I assure you, monsieur."

"Then I congratulate you, madame. What a pleasure to hear of it. Please forgive me again for being so solicitous."

"Not at all, monsieur. We are very pleased that you came to visit."

He gave her a self-conscious, obsequious smile peculiar to those who keenly feel they have gotten themselves into a regrettable social situation. Erik continued to brood against the wall, obviously watching his friend's discomfort with some relish.

But it bothered Christine. She excused herself to get some tea for the party, and disappeared from the room.

"Well, Erik, you are a married man?" the Persian said, settling somewhat as she left, apparently satisfied with what he had seen of her.

"As you see," he replied crisply.

The Persian smiled, cheered by this response. This, he knew, showed he was safe, and perhaps even welcome. If his sardonic friend had wanted him gone, he would have bundled him off again already.

"God be praised!" Nadir said warmly, "And such a wife, you lucky man! Well, I am very happy for you, my friend. You shall have to invite me to see the little ones as they come! I will pray that you be blessed with many..."

"That's not going to happen," Erik replied curtly.

"But surely we're good enough friends that you'd permit a short visit once—"

"You misunderstand, my damnably ingenuous, incredibly intrusive friend," he interrupted, impatience sizzling in his voice. "If I weren't convinced at your guilelessness, I'd be sorely tempted to knock you down for mocking me. We will never have children, as any man with half a brain would realize."

"But— I don't understand— Surely everything...ah...works properly?"

The old, companionable Persian frankness made Erik feel more at ease with the question, but he still rolled his eyes at the irony. If Nadir could perceive the vicious heat that had permanently settled in his lap of late, he would groan aloud in sympathy.

"Of course everything works," he spat angrily, "if that is any of your business."

"Then I think you'll find it rather difficult to prevent— wait, she refuses you?" he asked, horrified. "Forgive me, if I'm overstepping the bounds of propriety. I don't think I'll ever get used to your European delicacy about the honest pleasures of life."

Erik's face softened, thinking of her constant generosity, her openness to him.

"No, she has never refused me."

Confusion flashed across the Persian's face for a moment, followed swiftly by a pained awe of comprehension.

"You're a man of iron, Erik. How on earth do you bear it? And _why_?! I don't think there's another man on earth that would pass up the joy of having that woman, and she's your _wife_!"

"I have many stains on my conscience, Nadir, some as black as your Saqar. But little though it might excuse me, rape has never been one of my sins."

"But you said she hadn't refused you—"

Erik sighed at his friend's naïveté. "No, but no woman would endure me willingly. You've seen this proven with your own eyes. I wouldn't put her through that for all the shah's jewels."

Nadir had seen it, it was true. The frightened face of a wretched odalisque rose to both their memories, along with her last, pitiful screams.

"Have you told her this is why you avoid her?" he asked quietly.

"Not in those words..." he hesitated. He thought he had been clear, but the Daroga was making him question himself.

"But has she avoided you similarly? She won't touch you or let you near her?"

"No, she—" The memory of Christine's soft, insistent lips on his caught in his chest and choked him, bringing his stony wall down suddenly. "Yesterday—she kissed me and asked me to sleep beside her..."

Nadir gaped at the confession a moment blankly, then contempt and disbelief took over his features.

"Erik, you are a grand, asinine fool," he said coldly, ignoring Erik's flash of anger. "You've found the impossible—an angel who would share your bed without a thought for your face, who would make you happy for the rest of your life, and you reject her. You're throwing her away, her best years, and your own happiness with it. I can't even express to you the stupidity of what you are doing, the damage to both of you—" He cut off, his voice and hands suddenly beginning to shake in frustration.

His words cut into Erik like a sword, rearranging his brain and his insides. But there was no way to avoid resisting her that he could see. He would never force his ugliness on her, and whatever she said to the contrary, he was sure she would never earnestly want him. But the Persian was still ranting.

"Have you ever even considered how your rejection is making her feel? She has to think you despise her."

_No…_

"But how could I ever be that way with her?" Erik countered. "I couldn't bear it if I hurt her..."

"Allah has ordained that despite all the pain and suffering we cause them in conceiving and bearing our children, our women love us, if we care for them in return. They even want more, of both the children and the conceiving, if you take my meaning. It is a fantastical arrangement, I grant you."

Children. Nadir was getting ahead of him; Erik was thinking of the likely discomfort of her first night with him. He hadn't ever even considered what would likely come of their love. He had never in his life even imagined the possibility of fatherhood, even if, by some miracle, he had ever found someone willing to mate with him. It filled him with dread. Everything he had ever engendered in his life seemed to turn out aberrant just like him.

"They'd be monsters. I couldn't…"

"You can't know that," the Persian interrupted, perturbed. "In fact, I highly doubt they would inherit your particular—er—idiosyncrasies, rare as they are. Except, perhaps, your talent. But imagine— what if your lovely wife one day presented to you a strong, beautiful son, or a new daughter as lovely as the dawn, inshallah? A child, a rose in bloom that would light up your life with her love and innocence— what anxieties would you be willing to endure for such a blessing? And would you keep your lovely wife from experiencing such a treasure, as in love with her as you claim to be?"

The picture Nadir had painted stole his breath away. To feel the weight of a child in his arms, see the light of a fading sun paint swaths of rosy gold across her face—a child whole and pure as a cloud, a child he had helped to create. It staggered him.

Nadir smiled.

"You have much to think about, my friend, and much to talk about with your beautiful wife. I pray you will not continue to reject the happiness that God has offered you."

He rose, and Erik did too, still in a daze. "I think, my friend," said the Persian, "that I won't actually stay for tea. I've intruded enough already. Please give your wife my apologies."

Erik nodded, still in shock at the thoughts the Daroga had inspired, saying nothing, motioning blankly toward the way out.

"I'll see myself out then, shall I? And one more thing, Erik—if you do choose to—er—normalize your relationship, I suggest you move your wife elsewhere beforehand." He eyed the cold stone walls and ceiling and coughed pointedly. "This is not necessarily the healthiest atmosphere for a lady to carry a child, nor raise one."

"Yes, I suppose not," Erik replied absently.

The Persian was gone before Christine returned with the accoutrements of tea. She looked confused to see Erik alone in the room, staring blankly into the fire.

"Did he leave already?"

Erik nodded, coming somewhat more to himself.

"How odd," she said, setting the tray down on the table at his elbow.

"Yes, but he asked me to convey his apologies."

"What were you two talking about, if you don't mind my asking?"

"We were talking about you, and about your happiness," he replied. He rose, and reached for her hand. "Are you happy here, Christine?"

"I suppose I'm reasonably happy, yes."

"Would you be happier elsewhere?"

"I'm not sure. I think, if you were there, I could be happy most places."

He exhaled in pleasure, drawing her closer. "Do you really mean that?"

She looked probingly into his eyes, then reached up to untie the mask he wore. As it fell away, she maintained his gaze, completely unflinching before his mangled face. He could hardly breathe as she reached up and caressed his cheek with a slightly sad smile.

"Yes," she whispered. She rose onto the tips of her toes and slowly kissed his forehead, and then his temple, and then his cheek with excruciating tenderness, her face lingering near his. "Yes, you make me happy, Erik."

He watched that red pulse suffusing through her translucent, jewel-like lips, and the startling blue of her eyes like a crystalline spring. He was treading on such a tenuous thread of will…

He closed his eyes and echoed her—pressing his lips to her forehead with a painful uncertainty, then her fragrant temple, then her softly blushing cheek. She didn't run, she didn't even move, but for turning her head ever so slightly so that if he had had a nose, wretched man that he was, their noses would have brushed against one another.

"_May I kiss you?_"

It was barely a breath, and as soon as he had said it, he cursed his boldness, hoping she had not heard his mad, wicked request.

But she smiled, blushing, and nodded gently, so he, with infinite care, closed the distance.

He kissed her with an aching, lingering gentleness.

And she kissed him back, his living, willing bride.

All the possibilities kindled by the daroga swam through his head as he dared to kiss her again, and then still more. Was it even possible? A true, consummated marriage, a child? Perhaps it was no more improbable than her agreeing to marry him in the first place, than her being in his arms at this very moment, suffering his lips.

No, not suffering. As his reserve faltered, their kiss deepened, and she let out a sigh of frank pleasure. His sight exploded with stars. He broke away from her with a wild breath, staring at her hungrily. He so longed to adore her—to kiss her until she swooned, to caress her, to draw his tongue over her supple skin until she cried out in delight.

But that would have to wait, at the very least. He suddenly took her hand; swiftly, passionately kissed it, and fled.

He didn't know where he was until his fingers were already pounding the keys of the organ ferociously, beating back his want until it submitted to his will. But his imaginings still won over the music.

A demon daring to love an angel... To take her to wife and father her children...

If some sightless force of Justice cried out for his head after such an abomination, he decided would merrily, defiantly go to any scaffold constructed by God or man, just for the unthinkable joy of passing a single night in rapture with her.

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><p>Hopefully this satisfies your Shard of Glass itch, though, come to think of it, this might have made you itchier. Sorry! In case you wondered, Widor was real, and he did go on to be dubbed a chevalier of the Légion d'Honneur only a few years after this story takes place. Also, the fantastic organ of Saint-Sulpice is real too, and it's still one of the finest instruments in the world. If you happen to be in Paris, you should go take in a recital!<p> 


	10. Chapter 10: Lifting the Veil

A/N: Sorry for the delay on this, guys. I was involved in a seminar that was more demanding than I expected it would be. Also, this chapter was difficult because Erik's in a dark place and I find I have to go meet him in the dark to write this. Anyway, enjoy!

Special thanks to mildlyholmes, Tratieluver14, RosieLilyIce93, Silver Tallest, monarch27, Vitaani, Mrs. Thorton, ATaleOfTwistedSuspense, and SisC42190 for the encouragement. And wow, SisC, that's an incredible compliment! I'm honored, and so, so pleased that you're all enjoying it.

* * *

><p>Chapter 10: Lifting the Veil<p>

The storm of sound coming from the organ subsided finally in the evening, several hours after he had fled the room. Bringing in a simple supper on a tray, Christine found him quietly strumming a meditative tune on a strange stringed instrument. As she entered, he didn't look up, but his fingers momentarily tensed on the neck of the instrument before returning to their exotic tune.

"I wasn't sure if you felt like dining with me tonight," she said timidly, "so I brought this for you." She carefully set down the tray. "I'll leave you to your work."

"No, don't go, please, Christine." His words seemed to struggle against him. "I want— I wanted to speak with you a moment, if you'd be willing."

"Of course."

"Christine—" he sighed, frustrated, then began again. "I've been thinking about you— about why you stayed with me. About what you want from this life with me…"

He paused, letting out his unspent breath in a sigh.

This fretting made her uncomfortable, but she could wait for him to get his thoughts together. She drew closer to him, her fingers curiously brushing the warm wood curves of the instrument he held on his lap. The strings sighed faintly when she touched them.

"A lute?" she finally asked, now exploring the elaborately rosetted sound hole.

"An _oud_, actually," he breathed slightly hoarsely. His eyes followed her caressing fingers hungrily. "A Persian cousin of the lute." He held it out so that she could have a closer look.

She plucked one of its doubled strings experimentally, and was rewarded with a resonant peregrine thrum.

"So what conclusions did you come to in your thoughts?" she asked as the last thready sounds ebbed away.

"None," he said, forlornly reclaiming the oud. "That's why I wanted to talk to you. I don't even know what _I_ want now, other than your company."

_The cat who caught the canary_, she thought. He was so wrapped up in the pursuit of her that he didn't know what to do with her once he caught her.

"So what _do_ you want, Christine? What future do you see for yourself?"

Her eyes narrowed in confusion at the question. "I find it difficult to see very far in the future."

"Is that because of me?"

"Partly," she replied slowly, choosing her words carefully. "I do find you difficult to anticipate sometimes."

He smiled at her sadly.

"But surely you have dreams, or some ambitions for your life, at least before I stole them all away from you. Don't all little girls build castles in the air?"

"I suppose I did."

"And what did those palaces look like?"

"I wanted to sing, and at one time I considered joining the Church."

"The Church?" The instrument twanged obtrusively as his eyes finally met hers with incredulity, and he muffled the offending string suddenly with his hand.

"Yes, I know it sounds silly. When I was a very, very little girl, I wanted to marry my father." She laughed musically at the memory of her own childhood innocence. "When I was finally persuaded that this was impossible, I didn't want to marry anyone at all, especially after my father died."

"But when you came of age, this pious hope was dashed, as they say, by a strong young lad and a title?"

"No, by you."

"Me?"

"Yes, you made me into an opera singer."

"Ah!" he smiled again. "I never saw that the bright lights and acclaim appealed to you so. So you say _la prima donna_ won over _la Madonna_ in the end, eh?"

"No, it was more because music was my last tie to my father. I didn't know anything else. And then, when I was visited by the Angel of Music, just as he had promised me so many times—" She broke off wistfully.

"I see." His smile faded. "And what now? Now that your angel is really a wretch who stole you away and married you?"

"I wasn't stolen," she said, annoyed at the slight to her agency. "I went with you willingly."

"Well, we can quibble about that later. What I am interested in is what you want to do now, now that all your castles are demolished. I give you a fresh foundation, this one built mostly, I hope, in solid reality. What are your plans, architect?"

She thought for a moment that he was mocking her, but his eyes seemed earnest, and he stopped playing to listen to her.

"I can't return to the stage, so I suppose I just want a happy life— a happy marriage."

"A vague floorplan," he returned, still scrutinizing her. "What does that entail? What makes for a happy marriage?"

Sudden distress stopped up her mouth as she registered the words.

"I'm sorry if that's an impertinent question," he said quickly, noticing her discomfort. "You see, I've just never seen a marriage that could serve as a model for me."

Thoughts of answers suddenly began to race through her head much faster than she could pluck them out and force them into coherence. Faint memories of her father and mother and the tenderness they shared bombarded her. Their love had been free—nothing coerced and nothing withheld. Everything had been lit by the sun back then, so different from how things were now. She looked around for some means to extricate herself from this conversation.

"Christine, why are you so anxious?"

She looked back to see that he had risen and approached her in concern, his hand reaching for hers, which were busy picking at a now-bleeding fingernail.

"I— I'm sure I don't know," she finally managed. He separated her fretting hands gently, shielding her fingernail from more damage.

"You _are_ unhappy here," he said slowly, softly as he gently examined her finger, wiping away the tiny spot of blood that had emerged.

"No, I—" Her words caught in her throat.

"Or you're unhappy with the prospect of a future so dark you cannot envision it."

Tears began to sting her eyes as she desperately tried to blink them away.

"Christine, may I ask you something? Something that's going to sound desperately cruel, though the last thing I mean to do is wound you—" he broke off, apparently waiting for her permission.

She turned away slightly, hiding her sniffle, but nodded.

"If you had married the viscount instead of me, what would your life look like?"

A sob, bravely fought, finally broke through at these words, and her shoulders shook with it. This was what she was afraid of. Everything she had ever imagined about a life with Raoul had been warm and rosy, like her parents, like that golden time of her childhood long ago.

"I don't know," she whispered, wishing she were far away.

"I think it would be brighter than this," he gently spoke for her after a moment's pause. "I think you would take walks out in the sun every day, and go to glittering parties, and soon, you would have a little child, as bright and beautiful as you."

"Please stop, Erik," she sobbed, her face in her hands.

"I'm sorry, but Christine," he came around to face her, gently pulling her towards him, "I think we could have that too— perhaps not the parties, but— oh, I'm so sorry, sh, shh, I didn't mean to make you so upset. Please forgive me. Will you be able to listen to me for a moment? There, that's a good girl. I'm sorry it's so dark here. But what if I took you away? What if I took you far, far from here to a bright, sunny place?"

"What do you mean?" she asked, her voice muffled by his now damp shoulder.

"I have another house, you see," he said. "Or my family did. Apparently my parents used to go on holiday there; that is, until I was born." She looked up, her face red and blotchy from crying. She wiped her bloodshot eyes hastily.

"Where?"

"Outside of Cassis. It's up on the side of a calanque, but the property has olives and lavender fields and figs, and there's a beautiful little lagoon that's hidden from the open sea by the cliff. It's rather lovely, I think, though no one but a gardener has been there to care for it in a while. Would you like to go and see it?"

"I— Yes, I would," she said eagerly. "When can we go?"

"As soon as you like, my darling. The day after tomorrow, even, if that gives you enough time to prepare. And if you like it, we can live there forever. And if you don't, I'll take you somewhere else warm and sunny. I'd take you anywhere you wanted—a_nywhere_ to make you happy."

He took her hand and kissed it thoughtfully. "But surely sun and sea aren't all you crave for your life…"

"No."

"You want to be a mother," he guessed.

"Yes," she breathed. It was barely a whisper. Her heart contracted painfully in her chest, wringing a few more tears from her eyes.

He was quiet for a long time after that, though he took several breaths as if to speak. When he finally did speak, it was in a pained murmur.

"To what lengths would you be willing to go to achieve this?"

She quietly sat down on the other end of the organ bench, her arms folded protectively around her as she pondered this strange question. Lengths? She was fairly sure what this proposition would normally involve, but the fact that he had to ask in this way sent a shiver down her spine. How would things be different with him? What, exactly, would he ask of her?

"To what lengths must I go?" she finally asked.

"I can't convince myself that you would be truly willing to pursue this naturally, not with me…"

This frightened her. Was he hiding more horrors from her than his face, and his pale, sepulchral body?

"Why not?" she struggled awkwardly to frame her question diplomatically. "I mean— could you tell me why being with you shouldn't be like being with any other man?"

If she had suddenly smacked him, he couldn't have looked more surprised as soon as he understood what she was asking. Whatever he had been expecting from her, it wasn't this. He laughed mirthlessly, and began to unbutton his waistcoat.

"Like any other man? Christine— do you know what you're saying? Don't you remember—" his voice rose in panting breaths as he moved to the buttons of his shirt as well. When one of the buttons fought him, he tore at it until the threads broke, sending it skittering across the floor. "Don't you remember this?"

His chest was bare now, his shirt hanging open, and she could see all the ribs and sinews, even the texture of his sternum as it flexed with his fiery, heaving breaths. She could see the still-angry dotted scars where she had stitched his bullet wound those weeks ago. His skin was thin, a cadaverous greyish-yellow marbled with black veins.

"It doesn't get any better, Christine," he growled harshly. "The more you pull off, the more you reveal of me, the more death-like, the more monstrous I become!"

He was trying to frighten her. He always did this, she realized, when she hinted at a closeness that so many others took for granted. It wouldn't work this time. She wouldn't be quailed by his thorny front any longer.

Completely senseless of his anger, the same fingers that had earlier explored his oud so sensuously now reached out to slowly, tantalizingly brush his collarbone, and then daringly trail the curve of each rib, tracing his costal arch down to the harsh points of his false ribs.

He stared at her, first at her unmoved, unfrightened face, her eyes trained on her own wandering fingers, then at those amazing fingers that probed the skeletal crevices of his chest unafraid of their deathly gauntness. He had once read how St. Thomas once similarly touched the chest of his risen Lord in disbelief, but now he watched it happen in reverse— he watched in disbelief as she caressed him, while she was the redeemer.

"I don't care," she finally said, her words tearing the breathless silence. "It doesn't matter to me what you look like."

He searched her eyes, ransacking them for any trace of fear, any cast of disingenuousness. But there was none—they returned his gaze as clear and fathomable as a cold winter sky.

"You mean that?" he asked softly, awed by a sudden, childlike hope. "You— would want children with me? Conceiving them naturally, like— like anyone else?"

She smiled shyly, a lovely flush rising to her cheeks. "Of course I do, Erik. How else does a child come about? I was just frightened—I thought you meant it would be more—complicated—than that."

"Complicated?" he asked, confused by her implication.

"Nevermind," she said, smiling sheepishly. "I misunderstood you. But Erik, I married you anticipating that this would be a marriage like any other. I'm not afraid of that. In fact…" she paused, hesitant to say her next words, lest they appear unseemly.

"Please, speak," he prompted after a moment's silence, taking her hand and drawing her closer.

"Well," she began slowly, still shy, "if it's not untoward to say so, I think… That is… well, depending on the circumstances, I think it might be pleasant to be so close to you," she finished, blushing wildly. She let her face fall against his shoulder to hide her embarrassment.

He reflexively supported her with one arm and used the other to hastily cover his bare torso. Suddenly, all his guilty imaginings sharpened, sorely in his mind. Depending on the circumstances? There were circumstances under which she might tolerate, even enjoy him? His mind raced to imagine the setting she might find most bearable. He fought his tongue into silence before he could repulse her by asking for clarification. Stunned, he simply struggled, one-handed, to button his clothes and put another barrier between himself and this terrible, magical possibility. He was undone. He wrestled back a groan of impossibly mixed hope and terrible fear. Not yet. _Not yet. _

"Christine, you have to be out of your mind to say that," he finally said quietly, almost not intending her to hear.

"Why?" she said, just as quietly against his soft jacket. She finally raised her head to peer into his eyes. "Why do you still feel that there's no logical possibility that I could honestly feel attracted to you, Erik?"

"Christine, my own _mother_ couldn't stand the mere _sight_ of me…" he whispered mournfully. "She couldn't love me, and I asked so little of her. How much more would I be asking of you to suffer me so close to you?"

"I'm not her, Erik," she said simply, drawing her chilled hand across his cheekbone.

"But I'm so afraid that once you know me, once you truly see who I am, you'll realize how much you gave up to be with me, just as she did. You'll hate me. You'll run away, like she wanted to."

"Well, try me," she said confidently, her frustration at his continued mistrust leaking into her voice. "Let me see you, and we'll see what happens. Fortune favors the brave."

"And Christine, you have to consider that once we cross this gulf, we can't come back. You'll be trapped with me forever."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean in our situation, only an unconsummated marriage can be annulled."

"You'd consider an _annulment_?" she asked indignantly. "How could you want something so—"

"No!" He interrupted her. "No, of course I wouldn't ever _want_ one! You've given me more than I could have ever imagined. How could I _want_ that?" His fingers rose and caressed her sensitive lips, now bent in an adorable frown, remembering their earth-shattering kiss. "These have been the happiest days of my life, Christine, but I would be a _rake_ to take any more from you. I'm not the person you deserve. _No one_ deserves me. But your boy could make you happy— he could give you what you want. I know he would take you back; we haven't yet—"

His words broke off as her glare deepened.

"Christine—" he tried to begin again, but her fierce glower filled him with dread. "Christine, I—"

"Well, what do you want me to say?" she interrupted indignantly. "I can't _believe_ you'd suggest such a thing, Erik!"

"You don't have to say anything, Christine," he finally managed. "Just think about what I'm saying. This charity of yours—" he faltered as her gaze narrowed wrathfully "—or _attraction_ or whatever else you want to call it has consequences that will dictate the rest of your life. I can't let you make this choice without being assured that you're aware of what you're doing. I'll take you to the coast the day after tomorrow. It's journey of several days. If, once we reach the house, you have any second thoughts at all, tell me, and I'll have it annulled, and you'll be free."

She stared at him in disbelief for a moment, then fury like he had never seen before fell over her face like lightning.

"You claim to love me, Erik?" she fumed. "You claim to love me, and in the name of that love you would reject me, put me away, tarnish my honor for some perverse vanity—vanity I've never seen the like of before! How _dare_ you even _suggest_ such a thing? In your unbelievable, pathological pride, you can't believe that beneath your skin runs red blood like every other man's, not some infernal ichor! I think you _want_ to be a demon! You think it gives you power over others! Over me! You tried to use it to try to frighten me, even moments ago! You want me to run away so that you can feel affirmed in this twisted conception of uniqueness you have of yourself, this insane, addlepated— Erik!"

Her anger had broken him. He had fallen to his knees over the course of her tirade, settling finally to abase himself over her little feet, murmuring apologies, his shoulders shaking like a frightened child's.

"Erik, please get up. Why are you down there?"

She bent to raise him.

"Please don't be upset, Christine," he surrendered quietly. "You're right, you're right, every word you say is true! Please, please don't be angry with your poor Erik. Mercy, please. Show me what you want and I'll give it to you— anything at all!"

"Erik," she softened, discomfited at the power of her own words against him, "you just can't suggest things like that. How do you think it made me feel to hear you talk of imposing some kind of absurd trial period on our marriage?"

"I know, I know," he moaned, "don't you see what a wretch I am? I shouldn't be allowed to be with an angel like you… I dishonor you with my love..."

"You wouldn't if you'd just be sensical— I'm not going to run away, and I'm not going to hate you. You needn't convince yourself that I couldn't possibly understand what bearing children by you would involve. I know how this works, and I knew it before I married you, and I knew what I was getting into. I'm not a child, and I'm not an angel."

"I know," he said, kissing her hand placatingly, "I know."

"And you also _still_ seem to be under the illusion that you don't possess any trait that could possibly render you attractive to me," she said, her voice finally growing tender again. She arrested his gaze with her own. "Erik, how can I convince you? Your mind is beautiful. Your voice is beautiful. Sometimes when you sing, or even speak to me, I forget for a moment that I'm on earth…"

She pressed his cold hand to her flushed cheek and nuzzled it gently, closing her eyes in pleasure.

"Oh, Christine—" he sighed involuntarily, imagining her closing her eyes again someday in the keenest rapture at his daring touch.

"You see?" she brought him back to earth, "Even your touch is lovely to me— you're so gentle."

Confirming her words, or taking license from them, he softly massaged away the lines of distress that still burdened her brow, cooled her hot cheek with the backs of his wintry fingers, and then gently drew an errant lock of hair behind her ear. She hummed sweetly with relish.

"These things being so," she continued quietly, "why should you be so afraid you'll drive me away if you give me more of this?"

"Darling girl, I wish it were so simple…"

"Why shouldn't it be?" She met his eyes again, and still, all he could detect in them was earnestness.

"I just fear you'll find the—experience—more intense than you think it will be," he answered.

She smiled enchantingly. "All the better."

His mouth watered. This was going to be difficult. He still couldn't help but believe that the more restraint he exhibited, at least at first, the easier this would be for both of them. But how could he resist when she was so willing, and he so hungry?

"All the same," he concluded wearily, "I'll say no more about annulments, but for the sake of my sanity, could we please proceed slowly? I'd rather be driven out of my mind by anticipation beforehand than anxiety afterward."

"If it means so much to you," she answered softly.

He reached forward to caress her cheek. "You're so beautiful," he whispered as he looked into her eyes. In the dim light of the room, they looked as deep as her beloved Baltic Sea. "Are you tired?"

"A little."

"Go get ready for bed," he suggested gently. "I'll clear this away and join you shortly."

* * *

><p>He reappeared shortly after she finished dressing, and stood uncertainly in the doorway of the bedroom, regarding her as she sat on the edge of the bed braiding her hair.<p>

"Will you join me tonight?" she asked simply, her hair shining in the lamplight as she manipulated it.

"If you want me," he replied quietly.

"Of course I do," she said, tying off the braid with a ribbon. She gestured to the spot beside her. "Come."

Before he obeyed, he held up the covers for her as she settled in, then gently tucked them around her. Her rewarding smile made him want to tuck her in a thousand times more.

"Erik," she laughed, rising slightly to blow out the lamp, "_come_." He hadn't even realized that he had been standing there staring at her like a fool until the room fell into dimness. He heard her pull back the covers for him too.

As soon as he lay down, divested of his jacket and shoes, she was there, her soft arms winding intoxicatingly around him, her soft braided head coming to rest on his shoulder, just like the night before.

Tonight he felt strangely free to relish the closeness. There was now no anxiety like he had felt before.

"So we can go to your other house the day after tomorrow?" she asked hopefully. "How many days does it take to get there?"

"Yes, we can if you like, and it takes three long days by fast coach. I'd rather not travel by train if you don't mind."

"Coach is fine," she said. "Those roads are good and well-traveled, I imagine."

"Yes," he confirmed. "It is a pleasant journey, especially this time of year."

"Tell me more about your house, Erik," she sighed sleepily, nestling deeper into the crook of his shoulder.

"It's a beautiful place," he said, his voice falling into its sweetest, most hypnotic timbre. "Perched on a cliffside, surrounded by rocks and flowers, all lit by a golden sun. In the spring, the Mistral wind, softened by rows of old cypress, breathes the smell of lavender and thyme from the north west."

She inhaled deeply as if to catch a whiff of the wind he conjured. He smiled as her breathing then began to deepen into a regular, somnolent rhythm.

"And in the summer," he continued even more softly, "tan and rosy-cheeked mothers take up their sickles and gather the ripe wheat as they sing songs as old as those cliffs, their babies tied on their backs. The wind picks up the songs and carries them, making it sound like spirits dance among the olive grove surrounding the house. The dust from the harvest is so thick that it turns the sun red as it sets—they proudly claim that all the golden dust of Africa once fell from the sickles of Provence."

She had fallen asleep, her breath slow and even. He dared to reach up and touch the thick braid that crossed her shoulder, and then her cheek, warmed by sleep. He would never get used to this slowly-blossoming feeling that he belonged here, that he was of the same species as the lovely vision beside him. Soon he would take her to a land of her own sylphic element. But would he, a salamander, fade there, as she had begun to do here?

_You are a man, not a demon_, she had said. He still wasn't convinced. But he would allow her to put it to proof if she willed, though it made him shudder to imagine his cadaverous form entwining with her flowering beauty.

_After all_, he thought as he fell asleep, _I can deny her nothing_.

* * *

><p>AN: Ah, the awkwardness. *Grins evilly* Anyway, as you might imagine, things will start to warm up a bit in our favorite couple's relationship. But on my honor, in this story you shall find no scenes involving "virile lengths" or "feminine orbs" or anything else of the sort. I'm sorry if you go for that, but that kind of thing has always made me want gag and laugh at the same time, which is not a pleasant sensation for me. If this story goes M in the next few chapters (which may or may not happen), it goes M with its pride intact. Just to warn you.


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